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An Illustrated Monthly 

Edited by 


Vol. XXXIX. 

Xonoon : 



by Google 


Original from 



Illustrations from Paintings and Drawings. 


I.— Semolino. 
II.— The Lady Without an Appetite. 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 

A Symposium of Well-Known Auctioneers. 

Illustrations by J. Finnemore, R.I. 



Horace Annesley VachclL 530, 658 



Illustrations by W. R. S. StotL 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations by the Author. 


Illustrations from Drawings, Sketches, and a Photograph. 
CABINET TRICK, MR. FAY'S. A £20 Challenge to Mr. Maskelyne... 

Illustrations by G. A. Stevens. 

CAT STORY, MY BEST. A Symposium of Cat- Lovers and Cat-Fanciers 
Illustrations by Harry Rountree and from Photographs. 


Illustrations by A. J. Gough. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by S. Spurrier. 


Illustrations by H. M. Brock, R.I. 


Illustrations by Dudley Tennant. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. 

DRAMATIC SITUATIONS. Can You Supply the Missing Detail? 

Illustrations from Di a wings, 


Illustrations by Alfred Pearse. 

C. C. Andrews, 345 

John Roberts, 233 
.John Roberts, 487 

... James Scott, 


.. A*. S Warren Bell, 


. . Sir Hiram Maxim, 



,, Arthur E, Ashford. 


116, 245, 373, 5°h 629 

, 758 

Char Us Garvice, 


P. G. Wodehouse. 


W, B. MaxwelL 


Willy Clarkson, 


Arthur Morrison, 



Constance Clyae. 



Illustrations from Paintings and Drawings. 


Illustrations in Colour by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 


Illustrations by Balliol Salmon. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by Tom Browne, R.l. 

E, S. Valentine. 103 

W, W, Jacobs, 585 

... Winifred Graham, 457 

W, W, Jacobs, 177 

_ rigifU I fro r Arthur Morrison, 330 





Illustrations in Colour by Chas, Crombie. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations in Colour by S. Davis. 

HUNTING STORV, THE BEST. A Symposium of Hunting Men 

Illustrations by G. H. Jalland, A Briscoe, F. G. Lewin, G. D. Armour, and Tom Browne, R.I. 

... P. G. Wode house. 209* 

Arthur Frederick Park. 356 

Wendell Phillips Dodge. 1 68 
Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 697 

E. S. Valentine. 
...Edgar /epson. 

Edmund Parker. 

. . . I 9 rank SavHe. 


Illustrations from Paintings and Drawings. 


Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. 

KING'S SPEECH, THE. I ts Romance and Humour 

Illustrations from Old Prints and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by A. C Michael. 


Illustrations in Colour by H. M. Brock, R.I. 


Illustrations by J. A Shepherd. 


By Miss Braddon, Winifred Graham, Mrs. C. N. Williamson, L, T. Meade, Tom Gallon, 

Mrs. Baillie Reynolds, Mrs. Coulson Kernahan, Katharine Tynan, and Marjorie Bowen. 
Illustrations by W. R. S. Stutt, T. Peddie, W. Dewar, and Stephen Spurrier. 






.. H. G. Wells. 441 

Arthur Morrison. 416 


MAGIC CITY, THE. A Story for Children... 

Illustrations by Spencer Pryse. 

E. Nesbit. 108, 237, 365, 493, 620, 749 

MANNEQUIN," A DAY WITH A. How Beautiful Dresses Should and Should Not be Worn ... 
Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations in Colour by Gordon Browne, R.I. 


Illustrations by Chas. M. Sheldon. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by T. C Dugdale. 

MULTUM IN PARVO. A Compendium of Short Articles. 



The Beauty of the Pollen 

Everyday Notions Upset by Science 

An Artist in Fruit and Vegetables 

A Plant that Quenches Thirst 

Wild Squirrels as Friends 

How a Humorist Stuffs Animals 

Illustrations from Photographs, Bjok- Plates, and Facsimiles. 


Illustrations by W. H. Margetson, R.L 

MY FIRST AEROPLANE (Alaudx Magna) ... 

Illustrations in Colour by Tom Browne, R.I. 


Illustrations by Y. Carter. 


Illustrations by J. Skelton. 


Illustrations by A D. McCormick, R.I. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

P. G. Wodehouse. 
Aubrey Hopwood. 

John /. Ward. 

...Frank Savile. 










A. E. W. Mason. 41, 131, 314, 406, 545, 727 

H. G. Wells. 


E. Bland. 673 

C. C. Andrews. 91 
Morley Roberts. 259 

... Original 121,249,377,509,637,761 




•'PERPLEXITIES/' A # Page of Puzzlks. 


Illustrations by Cyrus Cunco. 


Illustrations from Paintings and by W. R. S. Stott 


Illustrations from Photographs. 



Henry £. Dudeney. 628, 757 
Austin Philips. 224 

By Leading Photographers. 1 
... Emanuek Ponwne. 305 

By One of the Assassins. 679 

Illustrations by A. Garth Jones and from Photographs. 


Alrxandra, Queen 338 

Alverstonb, Lord 342 

Booth, Generai 343 

Butt, Madame Clara 340 

Edward VII., King 339 

Isaacs, Sir Rufus 544 

Lohr, Miss Marie 542 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

A Symposium of Famous Explorers. 666 

Roberts, Lord 
Rosbbery, K.G., Lord 
Terriss, Miss Ellalinr 
Vanbrugh, Miss Irene 
Vanbrugh, Miss Violet 
Wodehouse, P. G. ... 


Andrew Sou tar. 613 


Edwardes, George 

Maskelyne, John Nkvil 

Maude, Cyril 

Sandow, Eugen 

Vanbrugh, Irene 

Illustrations fiom Photographs. 


Illustrations by Dudley Hardy, R.I., R.6.A. 


Illustrations by Joseph Simpson, R.B.A. 


Illustrations by Chas. Crombie. 





E. Phillips Oppenheim. 643 
P. G. Wodehouse. 47fr 
C. H. BovilL 25 


Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. 


Illustrations by C. Fleming Williams and from Paintings. 


Illustrations from Pictures and a Photograph. 


Illustrations from Cartoons and Sketches 


Illustrations by the Author. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Edmund J. Sullivan, A. R.W.S. 

Celebrities ... /. Martin Hewer, 184 
... ... James Barr. 424 

M. E. Btaddon. 269 

G. Valentine Williams. 205 

Leslie Ward v " Spy"). 81 

Harry Furniss. 464 

Thomas Harold Ferrar. 723 

Archibald Eyre. 449, 593 

Charles Garvice. 387 

"TERRY 11 . 

Illustrations by Balliol Salmon. 

... Margaret Westrup. 566 


Illustrations by Cordon Browne, R.I. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

/. Bart Rous. 153 

John J. Ward. 199 

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Miss Denise Orme as 4i St. Cecilia/' 

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Vol xxxix. 


No. 229, 



ANY persons have been puzzled 
to understand how it 18 that, 
while a really beautiful woman 
so frequently emerges from the 
photographic processes as a 
really plain one, another with 
scarcely any pretensions to beauty is revealed 
as a being who might easily evoke the 
rapturous homage of a poet. The reason for 
this seeming perversity is now made clear* 
It is all a question of personal skill, personal 
judgment, of the personal equation, not in 
the sense which implies technical manipula- 
tion of the plate or print, but in the intelli- 
gent management of camera and chemicals 
to produce the desired result 

And what is the desired result? Let Mr. 
Langfier and other famous photographic 
artists say : It is Truth. Mr. Bernard Shaw 
and numerous of his commentators have 
been telling us a great deal lately about 
photography in its relation to painting and 
life. We have been told about the functions 
of photography and the functions of pictorial 
art. Photography, to be anything at all, 
must be an accurate untouched transcript of 
Nature, and Mr. Shaw expressed his con- 
tempi of that kind of photographic impres- 
sionism " which is really under-exposure," 
As regards portrait work, the camera should 
be made to tell the truth. But what nobody 
seems to have observed in this connection is 
that there are two kinds of truth to be photo- 
graphed — that which is seen by the eye ami 
that which is seen by the mind. And they 
say that the camera fails to convey the 
second kind of truth, and must only give us 
information about particular tacts. 

What is forgotten is that the camera, so 
far from being originally truthful, is consum- 
mately untruthful It seizes hold of some 
unessential detail — something, perhaps, that 

Vol. xxxix. — 1 

the human eye would not observe at all — 
and exaggerates it until it seems to be 
essential and predominating. On the other 
hand, some essential detail, some delicate 
beauty of proportion, it fails to register duly* 

And when we speak of the camera we do 
not necessarily mean the light of heaven 
passing through a lens. The lens may be 
accurate, the image on the ground-glass may 
be accurate, but the final picture is, and 
must be, the result of processes. To this 
picture all the sun does is to throw the image 
upon a sensitized film, the image itself — the 
representation of the creature or scene that 
stood in front of the lens — being lost for 
ever. It is the business of the photographer 
to recall that image. There, in a word, is 
the whole art of photography, 

And photography is an art, because it 
represents facts and can select them. Where 
it falls short of art is in its lack of invention, 
and its dependence for beauty upon the 
beauty of the facts represented. When, 
granting these canons, photography fails 
adequately to represent beauty, it fails owing 
to the unski I fulness of the artist, because he 
does not understand the arrangement and 
juxtaposition of light- values, because he 
cannot select, because he cannot eliminate. 
Why, too, should it be denied that his 
photograph of beauty, whether of landscape 
or of flesh, should not be " the result of 
the successful expression of the artists 
emotions"? A beautiful woman beautifully 
rendered is a work of beauty and a work of 
art, It must, to be perfect, have feeling and 
quality, and that is what the eleven perfect 
photographs of eleven perfect women taken 
by eleven master photographers each 
possesses. Each has been selected by the 
artist as his masterpiece. 

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Chosen by Mr. Langfter. 




judicial impartiality of a Paris to award the 
golden prize to any one of these splendid 
sitters. It must be remembered that they 
are not, with two or three exceptions, " stage 
beauties," and so they need not be suspected 
of co-operating with the artist, other than by 
the most favourable presentation of their 
facial perfections at a sitting. 

It will be observed in such an admirable 
collection as the present how intensely indi- 
vidual are the styles of the different great 
photographers. It is not necessary to account 
for the difference in presentation, in pose, and 
in colour- values by reason of the different 
individuality of each sitter. Yet there is 
more in the effect of such individuality upon 
the resultant photograph than may have been 
hitherto conceded, because in spite of all 
that is said to the contrary the sitter does 
influence the artist. We see no little tech- 
nical contrast in the respective styles of Mr. 
Lafayette and Mme. Lallie Charles. 

The latter's work, as that of most members 
of the new school of lady photographers, is 
at once feminine, delicate, sympathetic, and 
yet direct. But the directness is no simple 
mechajjital directness. It is attained, yet 
legiCrrfitely, through the due processes of the 
art. The fact that each photographer has a 
distinct style easily recognizable is a proof 
— pace the critics — that execution does play 
a part in the art of photography. Of course, 
the technical differences are not so manifest 
in a reproduction such as the present as they 
are in the original prints, but enough of 
quality and of treatment remain to illustrate* 
this truth. 

Then hardly less interesting as bearing 
upon " selection " and " elimination " is the 
artist's choice of an ideal subject. It would 
hardly be expected that Mr. Langfier, for 
example, would choose the same sort of 
beauty as Messrs. Foulsham and Banfield, 
or that the London Stereoscopic Company 
would see eye to eye with Mr. Esme Collings. 
It would be like expecting Sir Luke Fildes 
to assimilate his ideals to those of Sir William 
Orchardson. - In his photographic master- 
piece. Mr. Bas$ano has conceived and built 
up a poetic idea, or, rather, the representa- 
tion oC a p&fetic idea* He has not, save 
in one detail, invented, because photography 
cannot invent ; but he has placed a beauti- 
ful woman in a poetic milieu and thereby 
approximated to the pictorial arts. He 
would not ask us to believe that the 
nimbus of the halo over the head of his 
St. Cecilia accurately reproduced anything 
which appeared on the ground glass of his 

VoL xxxbu—% 

camera, and in so far he has doubtless 
transcended the photographer's art. But so 
does a sculptor who colours and embellishes 
his statues with the colours of the sister art 
of painting. 

Like her sister, Mme. Lallie Charles, of 
whom we have spoken, Miss Rita Martin 
possesses in almost equal degree that eclectic 
sense so invaluable to a photographer. 

Moreover, there are few of the camera 
artists d la mode in whom the feeling for 
beauty is so strongly developed. Whether it 
is that fair sitters flock naturally to her studio 
as to a shrine, or whether she boasts with 
some distinguished masters of the brush her 
faculty of discreet idealization, must be left 
to a severer critic to determine. 

Very often must the artists whose pro- 
ductions bear the name of Caswall Smith 
have regretted the limitations of the camera, 
for in their work, as in that of Mr. Histed 
and his American rival, Mr. Coburn, we seem 
to see an attempt to pluck the heart out of 
the sitter's mystery — to give something more 
than a mere map of the face, a striving, 
largely aided by chiaroscuro, to convey 
emotion and produce sentiment. In some 
of the impressionist schools this is carried 
to excess ; it is not in Miss Caswall 
Smith's work, nor in that of Miss Amy 

That direct, straightforward, unembellished 
photography commended by Mr. Shaw has 
no more capable exponent than the London 
Stereoscopic Company. In all their work 
we find the most candid and implicit reliance 
upon the negative. In this they but follow 
the plain teachings of the school which long 
held sway in England — a school, on the 
whole, of almost hard and fast limitations, 
both as to negative and print. 

Such artists as Messrs. I^afayette and the 
Dover Street Studios endeavour, and not 
unsuccessfully, to steer a course between the 
severe naturalistic and the fashionable school 
of idealism. While aiming at a sharpness of 
definition-and a brilliancy of finish, they do 
not neglect a warmness of tone and a proper 
subordination of high lights. 

On the whole, it may well be affirmed that 
no such choice collection of the masterpieces 
of the leading English photographers has 
ever before been published. Making every 
allowance for the loss in quality through the 
engraver's screen and the substitution of 
printer's ink for the more delicate tones of 
a sensitized film, we may yet recognize in 
the accompanying examples the individual 
characteristics of each artist represented. 

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HI Sb 

H E room was all a hard 
glitter ; for electric lights had 
been set in the old glass 
chandelier, and its hundreds 
of lustres fiung the white rays 
backwards and 

11 All is ready, Highness." 

**You know what you have to do?" said 
Prince Urusoff. 

"Yes, Highness," said the man t and went 
quietly out of the room. 

forwards from one to another 
in a dazzling interchange, and 
multiplied tliem to thousands. 
So hard was the glitter that 
the late device of civiliza- 
tion produced an effect of 
crude barbarism. Its staring 
brilliance even struck a dull 
gleam out of the tarnished 
gilt of the old French furni- 

Prince Paul Urusoff stood 
very still before the blazing 
fire, a resplendent figure in 
his General's uniform, its 
gold lace, the orders on his 
breast, the scabbard of his 
swordj all agleam in the 
white glare. In the perfect 
balance of hard muscles and 
calm nerves he stirred no 
more than a statue, But 
his grey eyes as they fol 
lowed the movements of the 
servant putting the last 
touches to the supper table 
were dancing with something 
of the joyful expectancy of 
a mischievous schoolboy, 
and now and again a slow 
smile broke the grim lines of 
his face. 

The servant turned from 
the table and said : — 




Prince Urusoff stood smiling, and presently 
the door opened and Constantin Urusoff 
came in. He blinked in the glare as he 
saluted his father, came to his side, and 
stood looking down into the fire, silent, 
frowning in an uneasy perplexity, with 
troubled eyes. Prince Urusoff turned a 
little and watched him. 

They were very plainly father and son. 
Their grey eyes were alike, the curve of the 
brows above them, their straight noses, 
their firm, square chins, the line of their 
lips, their hands, their lean heads, their 
slim, muscular figures — uncommonly alike. 
Constantin, under the hammering of respon- 
sibility, might even come to look as grim as 
his father. 

He stared into the fire a while, then gave 
himself a little shake and said, " Did you 
dine at the palace ? " 

" Yes ; and they gave me dry champagne. 
I hate it — English muck !" said his father. 

"They should know better than that," 
said Constantin. 

" Know better ? They know nothing now- 
adays," growled Prince Urusoff. "Where's 
Elizabeth ? " 

14 Colonel Svalon is bringing her from the 

" Svalon ? It's always Svalon ; they're 
never apart. I can't understand why you 
don't find some way of stopping it," said 
Prince Urusoff, frowning. 

" I don't interfere. It would do no good. 
Elizabeth would be hurt. Besides, I want 
nothing she does not give freely — nothing." 

" But it makes you unhappy." 

Constantin shrugged his shoulders. 

" I don't understand it— to be unhappy 
without making a fight for it I suppose it 
is modern," said Prince Urusoff. " Besides, 
women are not won like that. When I was 
young it was different. I should certainly 
have challenged Svalon.* 

" If I killed Svalon, it would profit me no 
more with Elizabeth than if Svalon killed me. 
She would have a horror of me. She's the 
gentlest creature." 

"A woman's gentleness is very much a 
surface quality — where a man is concerned. 
Besides, so gentle— and always with Svalon ?" 
said Prince JJrusoff; and his eyebrows 

" Yes ; it's strange that he should attract 
her so. It's*^ fascination. She thinks of 
nothing else; she talks of nothing elser— an 
absolute fascinatipn." 

" Well, he has cast a kind of spell on her 
— a passing spell. Those noisy, energetic 

fellows often do— on delicate creatures like 

"No; it's the fascination of the hero. 
Svalon has done great things," said Con- 
stantin, with frowning thoughtfulness. 

" As for that, heroism is a mere accident — 
a matter of getting your chance. It might 
happen to anybody. The chances don't 
always come to the bravest men. I have 
seen war," said Prince Urusoff. 

"Well, the chances came to Svalon, and 
he took them. And Elizabeth admires him 
— passionately." 

" Admires him ? Yes ; but no more. 
There's no need to be downhearted about 
that. The spell will pass, I tell you. You 
have had months' start of Svalon with 
Elizabeth, and she does not easily change," 
said Prince Urusoff. 

" Not easily ; but " said Constantin ; 

and he shrugged his shoulders with an air of 
bitter resignation. " After all, the important 
thing is that she should be happy." 

"The important thing* i& that she should 
be happy with you. And — well, we shall 
see. I think we shall see," said Prince 
Urusoff; and again his eyes were dancing 
with mischief, and the smile broke the grim 
lines of his face. 

They were silent, and Constantin's troubled 
eyes stared into the fire. 

There was a murmur, the dopr opened, a 
servant announced the Countess Zakomelsky 
and Colonel Svalon, and Elizabeth came into 
the room, blinking in its glare. 

Her blue eyes were shining ; the clear skin 
of her rather pale cheeks was flushed ; one 
after another, quickly, smiles wreathed her 
sensitive lips. She looked a supremely happy 
child. The staring white light robbed her 
beauty of some of its colour and deepened her 
air of fragility. Black-eyed, black-haired, 
high-coloured, Colonel Svalon followed her 
into the room with a gait springy almost to 
jerkiness. His high cheek-bones and the 
slight upward slant of the eye-slits showed 
a strong strain of Tartar blood in him ; he 
looked a man of coarser and even harder 
grain than the two Urusoffs. 

Prince Urusoffs grim face relaxed in an 
indulgent smile at the sight of Elizabeth ; 
and he bent to kiss her hand with an air 
almost of devotion. 

Elizabeth held out both her hands to 
Constantin ; and as he took them she said, 
in her clear, childlike voice, "Colonel Svalon 

^mi¥fisfft(WffilKff- a sp,endid 

" He is a lucky man to have so many tc 



tell," said Prince Urusoff, as the three men 
saluted one another 

w There is no satisfying the Countess/' said 
Colonel Svalon, in a rather rough, harsh 
voice. lt As soon as I have finished one, 
she asks for another and then another, and 
always stories of war, I tell you, if all 
Russian women were as keen about war, we 
should be a good deal quicker in conquering 
the world. And Japan ? There would be 
no Japan, It was hard work collecting 
those stories ; but it was worth while, since 
the Countess is so eager to hear them," 

"It was more than hard work. It was 
terrible— magnificently terrible," said Eliza- 
beth,' and there was a touch of awe in her 
admiring tone. * 4 Tell them the story, 
Colonel Svalon," 

He told the story, an affair of outposts, 
and he told it well. The quick, jerky move- 
ments of his body, his sparkling little eyes 
unceasingly darting from one to the other, 
his restless hands gave the impression of an 
overflowing, irrepressible energy. 

When he came to the end of the story the 
servant said, "Supper is served, Highness." 

They sat down at the table, Elizabeth 
facing Svalon, Constant] \\ facing the Prince. 
The talk was easy, unchecked, unbroken by 
pauses. Constant in did not smile often, not 

even at Elizabeth, but he took a sufficient 
share In it. Elizabeth seemed to have no 
ears for anyone but Svalon* She listened to 
him with shining eyes, parted Hps, and flushed 
cheeks, bent all the time a little towards him. 
Her frail beauty seemed to draw warmth and 
colour from his abounding vigour. She was 
like a flower turning to the sun. 

Under the stimulus of her eyes and the 
champagne he talked more and louder, telling 
them what he had done and what he would 
do — or, rather, telling Elizabeth ; more and 
more he addressed himself to Elizabeth. 
There was nothing of the boaster about him* 
It was the talk of a man who had done 
things, and, sure of himself, was resolved 
steadfastly to do greater things. But it was 
always the unrelieved egotist who spoke. 
Svalon had worked and fought for Svalon, 
and he was going to work and fight for 
Svalon, and for no one and nothing else. 
He sneered at the Panslavistic dream ; the 
conquest of Persia, himself the conqueror, 
was his goal. The East was the proper field 
for the exercise of his peculiar talents* Once, 
when there were no servants in the room, he 
broke out about the Czar, that rankling 
grievance of the Russian ruling class, speak- 
ing of hi in as u that cowering rat, Nicky 
Miloush," who could never keep a decent 




man near him, whose passion for sneaking a 
finger into every* pie hampered everyone. 

But all the while that he was dominating 
the party by his violent vigour he showed 
an uncommon, quick-witted address. He 
deferred to Prince Urusoff; Elizabeth had 
but to move her lips and he was all earnest 
attention ; he seemed to weigh their words 
carefully before he agreed with them. He 
was civil to Constantin, but with a reserve ; 
two or three times when his eyes rested on 
him there was a question in them ; they 
seemed to weigh him as an adversary. 

Prince Urusoff flattered him, applauding 
his designs, urging him to develop his plans 
further. He seemed resolved that his guest 
should display his powers to the full. At the 
end of another discussion of the conquest of 
Persia he said, with sincere admiration, 
" You're a great man, Colonel Svalon." 

" He is a superman — dreaming in empires," 
said Elizabeth, softly ; and she gazed at him 
with fascinated eyes. 

The three men looked at her. A slow flush 
gathered in Svalon's face ; his restless eyes 
were still devouring her, and he said, slowly, 
" I don't know what a superman is, Countess. 
I'm a soldier — but I have other dreams." 

They seemed to be alone together — to 
have forgotten the other two. There was a 
dull, painful anger in Constantin's eyes. 

" Open another bottle of champagne, and 
you can leave us, Vassili," said Prince 
Urusoff to the servant. 

They sat silent. Elizabeth was gazing 
down with rapt, unseeing eyes. Svalon and 
Constantin gazed at her. At the pop of the 
champagne cork all three started. Vassili 
put the bottle on the table and went out of 
the ro'jm. 

Constantin and Svalon looked at one 
another with hostile, challenging eyes. 

" A great scheme," said Prince Urusoff. 

None of them seemed to hear him. 

He had been sittifig bent forward with his 
right arm on the table. He drew himself 
upright, and in a louder voice said, "One 
of you is wearing a watch which ticks very 

" Pm not wearing a watch," said Svalon. 

Constantin shook his head. 

"It must be yours, Elizabeth," said Prince 

" No ; my watches are at home," said 

" It's odd. I hear a ticking. Listen ! " 
said Prince Urusoff. 

They were all quiet. 

"Yes; there is a ticking — in the corner. 

It comes from Marie Antoinette's cabinet," 
said Elizabeth. 

Constantin rose, went to the cabinet, and 
opened its doors. There were a few pieces of 
brie -&-brac on the shelves, but no watch or 
clock. With a sudden movement he bent 
towards the floor, drew himself upright, and 
turned to them. 

His face was very pale, but he said quietly, 
" There is nothing. Let's go to the drawing- 
room, father." 

There was a curious tense silence for a 
moment Constantin's eyes met those of 
Prince Urusoff and then those of Svalon. 
None of the three men looked at Elizabeth. 

"Come along, Elizabeth," said Prince 
Urusoff, rising. 

" Why ? It's very pleasant " 

Then the compelling force in Prince 
Urusoff s tone struck her ; her voice died 
down suddenly ; and she rose and moved 
along the side of the table, a faint, groping 
wonder in her eyes.- 

With strides which were not quick but 
long, Svalon was at the door, opening it for 
her. It seemed to stick ; and the handle 
jarred to his tug. \.* 

" There's something wrong with the lock," 
he said, on a strident note. 

" Allow me," said Prince Urusoff, letting 
Elizabeth's hand fall from his arm. 

He turned the handle, shook it, and 
loosed it. 

" The door's locked," he said. 

"The window," said Svalon ; and he went 
the length of the room in three strides. 

" It's no use — forty feet from the ground 
and barred," said Prince Urusoff. 

Svalcn threw it open, gripped one of the 
bars, and shook at it. An icy wind blew into 
the room and a hundred snow-flakes fluttered 
round his head. He shut the window ; and 
for all the icy blast his forehead was shining. 

"What— what— oh, the ticking! It's an 
infernal machine ! " cried Elizabeth. 

Constantin caught her hand, and said, 
"There's no need to be frightened. We've 
found it in plenty of time to get you away." 

She gasped and sobbed once, and stood 
quiet, trembling. 

Svalon came springing back to the door, 
and struck it hard with his fist, testing it. 

" We must break out a panel," he cried. 

" Kyshtim oak, forty years old, and more 
than two inches thick," said Prince Urusoff. 

Svalon sprang to the fireplace — he seemed 
able to move only in leaps — snatched up the 
thin poker, and flung it down. 

" No use ; and this flimsy furniture would 



smash like touchwood against that door," he 
said, and stood still glowering round at the 
rosewood chairs and couches* 

Constantin ran across the room to him, 
seized his arm, and shook him savagely. 

11 Where's your resource, man ? You must 
get Elizabeth away ! " he cried, hoarsely. 

" Can't you see these cursed revolutionists 
have all the resources? This room was 
built for them r h growled Svalon. 

He stood hunched together, his brow 
puckered, his eyes half-closed in an intense 

"Can we pull up a plank and throw the 
thing out of the window ? " cried Constantin. 

Without a word Svalon bounded to the 
corner, and Constantin was nearly as quick. 
They dropped on their knees, wrenched up 
the carpet, ripping it from the nails* and 
dragged it back, upsetting the cabinet 





The ticking rang out louder, 

"New screws," said Constantin, bending 
over the bared planks. 

They stood up and stared round the room, 
seeking some makeshift tool. 

" The knives ! " said Svalon, leaping to the 

He snatched up a knife, set his heel on the 
blade, snapped it in half, and was back in 
the corner, on his knees, working away at one 
of the screws which held down the plank. 
Constantin was quick to imitate him. The 
thin blades chipped and bent ; not a screw 
moved half a turn. Prince Urusoff watched 
them, with an arm round Elizabeth. Svalon 
broke three knives and Constantin two before 
they relaxed in their fruitless efforts. 

They rose and looked at one another, and 
came back to the table. There was no longer 
any springiness m Svalon's gait; he sank 
limply into N a chair and wrapped a napkin 
round his blading fingers. Constantin -set _ 
himself as a shield between Elizabeth and 
the corner, looking at her with a fury of pity 
and horror in his eyes. She held her head 
high, but she was moistening her dry lips 
with the tip of her tpflgue. 

In their silence the sound of the ticking 
came very clear. 

" So — we are caught like rats in a trap," 
said Prince Urusoff; and he sat down. 

"Like rats in artrap," snarled Svalon. 

There came two gasping, strangled sobs 
from Elizabeth ; Constantin made a step 
towards her. She checked her sobs by a 
convulsive effort and was very still. The 
ticking struck very loud on their strained 

" It's absurd — monstrous — execrable ! Cut 
off like a rat in a trap — at the beginning of 
things ! " shouted Svalon, violently ; and he 
burst into a storm of execrations at the 

" Howling won't mend matters," said Con- 

Svalon was silent. Then, in a fresh spasm 
of energy, he rushed to the window, opened 
it, and shouted for help. The others watched 
him. His voice drowned the sound of the 
ticking. It was a relief. 

Prince Urusoff said, " The window opens 
on to the courtyard. Not a servant will be 
out in it on a night like this. With that 
wind blowing, no one will hear you." 

Svalon banged the window and came down 
the room, cursing again. 

" Don't make such a noise. I can't hear 
the ticking if you make such a noise," said 
Elizabeth, fretfully. 

"The Countess sets you an example of 
composure, Colonel," said Prince Urusoff. 

" Curse composure ! " said Svalon. But he 
looked at Elizabeth, and some of the savage 
rage faded out of his face. "God, it is 
hard ! " he said. " At the beginning of things 
— the very beginning of things. And you 
too, Countess — to lose you too ! " He threw 
out his hands. " Everything was coming my 
way— everything." 

Elizabeth gazed at him with curious, 
searching eyes, and a faint flush warmed 
her pale cheeks. 

He took a step towards her and held out 
his arms. " Come, let us die together. It's 
all that's left — a few kisses." 

Elizabeth took a step backwards. " No ; 
you're wrong. I'm not — I wasn't — coming 
to you, Colonel Svalon," she said, quickly. 

"This is no time for timidities. We're 
out of the world. You can be yourself; 
there will be no one to tell, eh, Highness ? " 
said Svalon. 

" There will be no one to tell," said Prince 

Svalon made another step towards her, 
smiling. " Quick ! We have not long — three 
kisses, perhaps." 

A faint repugnance shone in Elizabeth's 
eyes, a little shiver shook her. " No," she 
said, in a faint voice, but clear. " You're 
wrong — quite wrong. Never, had we been 
living, would you have kissed me." 

" I think I should," said Svalon, quietly. 
" But what does it matter now? " 

He dropped into a chair, filled a glass 
with champagne, drank it slowly, and then 

The ticking rang out in the silence as 
jarring as a cracked bell. It hammered on 
their ears. 

"Oh, will it be long? It's dreadful wait- 
ing," cried Elizabeth, and her voice broke in 
a sob. 

" Poor Elizabeth ! Don't be so frightened. 
It will be very quick. You will know nothing 
— feel nothing— nothing at all," said Con- 
stantin, gently ; and there was a poignant 
tenderness, an aching regret in his tone. 

" But it's so dreadful, waiting," she wailed ; 
and then, softly, " Hold me, Constantin." 

Constantin made a step forward, and his 
arms were round her. She raised her face, 
and their lips met. 

" Oh, Elizabeth— poor Elizabeth ! " he 

" So . that was hoWj rth^. lawd lay. I thought 
so," growled Svalon ; and, scowling at them, 
he poured out another glass of champagne. 



But it might be too 
The ticking is 

Prince Urusoff laughed softly ; then he 
said, " I think the joke has gone far enough." 

Svalon twisted on his chair and looked 
at him ; but neither Elizabeth nor Constantin 

il I meant to wait till the alarum went off/' 
said Prince Urusoff, in a louder voice, which 
caught their ears- 
great a shock to Elizabeth, 
bad enough." 

** Alarum ! Joke ! What do you mean V 
said Svalon, starting up. 

" Well, I wanted to test your nerves 
Colonel Svalon, so I had a 
plank taken up and put 
one of those loud -ticking 
American clocks under- 
neath it. It's not an infernal 
machine at all," said Prince 
Urusoff, smiling. 

" Oh ! " said Elizabeth ; 
and she twisted herself out 
of Constantin's arms and 
stood gasping and blushing. 

" An American clock ! 
An American clock ! Well, 
I'll be shot ! " cried Svalon ; 
and he burst into a great 
shout of laughter, and then 
roared and roared on a 
lower note* The roars rang 
a little hysterical. Presently 
he was rocking on his feet, 
holding his ribs, and the 
tears were running down 
his cheeks. After a while 
he got control of himself, 
checked his laughter, and 
gasped, * E A splendid joke 
— stupendous ! " 

11 1 merely wished to 
test things/ 1 said Prince 

" But you're detestable, 
god papa ! " said Elizabeth j 
and then she smiled* 

" You shouldn't have 
done it, father ! It was 
cruel— horrible to frighten 
poor Elizabeth like that," 
cried Constantin, hotly* 

lie was panting painfully, 
like a man who has run 
himself out in a race. 

"I don't think you vt: 
any great reason to com- 
plain, Constantin," said 
Prince Urusoff, mildly. 

\nd I think Elizabeth 

will forgive me. I fancy my infernal machine 
— cleared the air," 

" It didn't, godpapa ! I never — I 

always " cried Elizabeth, and she stopped 

short, blushing furiously. 

There was a jarring click, and then the 
buzzing tingle of the alarum, smothered by 
the floor. Elizabeth clutched Constan tin's 
arm with both hands. 

Another great shout of laughter burst from 


" A glorious joke — glorious ! n he 
*' I have been nearly frightened to 


" My Metsiia^I^ee^^e^, 

f 9 



ERSONS with a tendency to 
saying nice things have been 
kind enough to tell me that 
at a very early age I displayed 
no little aptitude for u mechan- 
ical pursuits^" which, being 

translated into everyday language, means, I 

take it t that I had a taste far filing and 

scraping. For my own part, all 1 can 

remember is that I was very fond of making 

things ; and a boy naturally likes to do what 

he likes. But the boy who has no taste 

for mechanics can surely 

never become a mechani- 
cian. And, by the same 

token, a boy whose tastes 

drift strongly in the direc- 
tion of mechanism can 

never become anything 

else, for the study of 

mechanism is one of those 

all -powerful habits whose 

influence so undermines 

the will that its luckless 

victim finally becomes a 

slave to an all-absorbing 


So it was with me, 

From the initial stage of 

wanting to see the wheels 

go round I passed, in the 

ordinary course of events, 

to the more advanced 

period of wanting to make 

them go round. And 

although I was born 

some three score and 

ten years ago— on the 22nd of December, 
1839, to be accurate —even in these faraway 

days 1 can look back with a pang of pity upon 

a family of seven sisters, afflicted mom, noon t 

and night by the untutored, but none the less 
enthusiastic, efforts of a mechanically-minded 
and only brother whose chief object in life it 
was to see " how things worked:" 

Of my early boyhood experiences one in 
particular stands out most vividly. Bathing 
in a canal I was carried out of my depth, and 

after the usual period of struggling I was 

drowned^ and, saving my subsequent resus- 
Vol. x*xi*.- 3* 

MR. ). N. MAsKRI.VNR, 

citation, I was, to all ordinary intents ami 
purposes, as dead as cold mutton or the pro- 
verbial doornail Of course, this particular 
incident happened a very long time ago, hut 
I may say that, so far as my memory carries, 
drowning is fur from an unpleasant death 
After the first few seconds, after the first wild 
struggles for breath, it is quite painless, and, 
although there is a popular theory that all 
the past events of his life muster together 
and crowd in Indian file through a drowning 
man's brain, I am compelled to admit that, 
as far as I am concerned, 
'it assuredly was not the 
case that all the events 
of my life presented 
themselves to me. 

One thing, however, 
did appear to my mental 
vision and as dearly out- 
lined as though it were 
actually before my eyes, 
That was the image of 
my mother engaged upon 
her household duties. On 
returning home I was in- 
tensely astonished to find 
that she also had experi- 
enced a strong feeling 
that all was not well wkh 
me at the actual moment 
when I was so near 
death. I need scarcely 
say that there are numer 
ous records of similar 
occurrences in which a 
natural influence appears 
to be exercised between mind and mind, 
though whether or not it may be possible 
to establish any physical law bearing upon 
the subject I cannot say. But, to me, this 
mental action during times of stress and 
danger — rail it telepathy, or what you will — 
remains an undisputable fact which no 
amount of reasoning can explain away, 
Apropos of my drowning experience, I 
should like to say that my recovery was so 
complete that a few hours after my arrival 
home I went 1.0 church and, as a chorister, 
I sang^-J^EF^^dP^eH^N 1 ^ evening. 



I trust, however, that this will not be taken 
as a precedent, for I have yet to hear that 
any- living soul, who has actually returned as 
I did, after passing through the valley of the 
shadow, has so far recovered as to be able to 
do the same thing. 

The event in my boyhood which exercised 
a more powerful influence than any other on 
my future career was a visit to the Exhibition 
of 1851. There I saw the "Piping Bullfinch" 
for the first time. The crowd of people round 
this "wonder" was so great that it was diffi- 
cult to get near the mechanical songster, 
which to me, I must tell you, was the whole 
exhibition. I had no eyes for anything else. 
The delight of seeing the miniature bird 
emerge from its hiding-place and sing with 
all the life and movement of Nature's handi- 
work was simply indescribable, and I am 
firmly convinced it was that which first 
aroused in me a taste for all that is fine and 
delicate in mechanism. 

So far as a profession is concerned I had 
always shown a great desire to learn watch- 
making. Accordingly, I was apprenticed to 
a working jeweller and watchmaker at Chelten- 
ham, and although I was perfectly happy and 
worked diligently during business hours, in 
my leisure time I devoted my earnest atten- 
tion still more studiously to the invention 
and construction of magical apparatus. It 
was during my apprenticeship that I first 
became interested in spiritualism, and as 
since then spiritualists have obtruded them- 
selves by no means unostentatiously in my 
career, my first introduction to "spiritualism" 
will doubtless interest many people. 

Near my place of business lived a man 
who professed to be able to cure disease by 
mesmerism and supernatural power. He 
frequently came to the shop in which I 
worked, to have made for him "little pieces 
of apparatus." These commissions were 
generally placed in my hands, and in the 
course of time we became so friendly that he 
finally invited me to his stances, in which, at 
first, I soon became quite absorbed, believing 
for a time that they were perfectly genuine. 1 
was only seventeen, by the way, so I may 
reasonably charge my tender years for this 
blind faith in his occult performances. 

One day, however, disillusion came to me. 
He who professed to cure disease by mes- 
merism and supernatural power brought me 
" a piece of apparatus " to be repaired; telling 
me at the same time that it was a surgical 
appliance. I was most curious to see how 
this surgical appliance could be intelligently 
applied to surgery, and after experimenting 

with it I found that, by attaching it to the leg, 
and making several additions, it made raps 
upon the table in a manner which reminded 
me most vividly of those rappings I had 
heard at some of my acquaintance's stances. 

But my business was to repair the appliance, 
which I soon did, and sent it back to the 
owner, enclosing an account made out as 
follows : — 

Repairs to table- rapping apparatus ... is. 6d. 

I considered this very smart at the time, 
but it proved an act of unwisdom, for I was 
never again invited to any of those seances ; 
no more work was placed in my hands, and, 
in consequence, I was prevented from dis- 
covering any more of this man's tricks. This 
circumstance, however, created in me an 
intense desire to get to the bottom of the 
fraud and expose it. I, therefore, attended 
every spiritual sdance 1 possibly could, and 
frequently had to pretend to believe in the 
humbug to gain admittance ; but, as some 
slight compensation for these " acts of insin- 
cerity," I usually came away with a few tricks 
added to my repertoire. 

No doubt, sooner or later, I should have 
adopted magic as a profession. The matter, 
however, was settled for me by an event 
which happened just over forty-five years ago. 
That was the visit of the notorious Davenport 
Brothers to Cheltenham. Those spiritualistic 
impostors were billed to give stances at the 
Town Hall, and as everywhere they went 
they made a great sensation their advent was 
awaited with the keenest anticipation. Their 
performance, as thousands of the readers 
of The Strand Magazine will doubtless 
remember, was given with the aid of a cabinet, 
in which the brothers were secured hand and 
foot with ropes, sometimes by the public and 
sometimes by spirits. The cabinet, in appear- 
ance, was much like a wardrobe with three 
doors, in the centre of which was an aperture 
covered by a piece of black cloth. 

The Brothers Davenport sat facing one 
another at either side of the cabinet, and 
thus, the two doors right and left being 
closed, it was only by looking sideways into 
the cabinet that either brother could be 
seen. I would mention, however, that the 
light in the room was always dim, so that 
even when the centre door was open it was 
difficult to distinguish any movement inside. 
And although the men sat there, apparently 
tightly bound, no sooner was the middle 
door closed than hands would be thrust out 
through the aperture, instruments placed 
within, , jtfip- - ^t«oef m »yene * [Performed upon, 
bells 'frWrc' 'rung, anu' lj ■'tambourines were 



jingled. Then, of a sud- 
den, the centre door would 
open and the instruments 
would come flying into the 
room, though, when the side 
doors were open, the Haven- 
port Brothers were found to 
be tied just as previously, 
not even a single knot being 
disturbed. Numerous effects 
of the most startling charac- 
ter were also produced in 
the cabinet, and altogether 
the performance was an 
exceedingly clever one. 

In due course the world- 
famous mystifiers held their 
seance at the Town Hall at 
Cheltenham, the windows of 
which were specially dark- 
ened for the occasion. It 
so happened that I was one 
of the committee of investi- 
gation elected by the audi- 
ence. During the stance 
I was seated on one side 
of the stage, with a row 
of darkened windows at 
my back. It was an afternoon perform- 
ance. Once, while the centre door was 
opening and instruments were flying out 
of the cabinet, a small piece of drapery fell 
from the window behind me. A ray of sun- 
light shot into the cabinet, lighting up Ira 
Davenport, whose actions thus became visible 
to me. There sat Ira with one hand behind 
him and the other in the act of throwing the 
instruments out. In a trice both hands were 
behind him. He gave a smart wriggle of his 
shoulders, and lo! when his bonds were 
examined, he was found to be thoroughly 
secured; so firmly bound, in fact, that the 
ropes were cutting into the flesh on his wrists. 

But I had discovered the secret. Ira 
Davenport's movement had taught me the 
trick. And 1 knew that with a little practice 
I could do it, The spokesman, the Rev\ Dr, 
Ferguson, tried to get me away, but with no 
success. " Indies and gentlemen," I said, 
addressing the audience, u by a slight acci- 
dent I have been able to discover this trick/' 
This statement was challenged by the gentle- 
man who engaged the performers, I at once 
replied that it was a feat of dexterity, and 
could not, therefore, be performed without 
practice, adding that, to prove my statement, 
I would there and then make a promise to 
put the trick into practice, and at the earliest 
possible moryient I would undertake to present 



From an OU Print. 

a replica of the entire performance in the 
same hall. At this time, I must tetl yon, I 
was a member of an amateur band, and at 
rehearsals a certain Mr. G, A, Cooke used to 
sit beside me. 

Now, in order to do this trick effectively I 
realized at once that I should require an 
assistant, for it was a sheer impossibility for 
any one man alone to give a correct imitation 
of the Davenports' performance. I suggested 
to Mr. Cooke, therefore, that he should help 
me, which he readily consented to do, and 
that is how the names of Maskelyne and 
Cooke became connected. Mr* Cooke, I 
would mention, ever afterwards remained my 
confidential assistant almost to the day of his 
death, four years ago* 

Writing of this connection reminds me 
that, from remarks I have often heard made 
and letters I have received on the subject, 
there would seem to be a widespread im- 
pression among those interested in magic 
that I am a foreigner, and that my name has 
been assumed purely for showmanship pur- 
poses. This, however, is not so. My name 
is my birthright, and I am a member of a 
Wiltshire family who have possessed landed 
estates in the neighbourhood of Purton and 
Wootton Bassett for many hundreds of years, 

after- EHil? ti^lvl^pWrt^kpp<?Sffelrice I .gave an 



exact replica of their performance in the same 
hall at Cheltenham as I had promised. The 
success attending this exposure, and the 
numerous applications I received from 
persons desirous of securing a repetition of 
the performance, brought me such notoriety 
that I was offered engagements all over the 
country, and I soon found it impossible to 
devote my time to anything else but magic, 
and, much to the disgust of my parents and 
my wife, I decided to "cross the Rubicon" 
without further hesitation. So, abandoning 
my first choice of professions, I launched 
out on the stormy seas of magic and 

I will not here go into my early struggles, 
though struggles, indeed, I had. Still, these 
are inseparable from almost every calling 
selected by those who have to make their 
own way in the world. Suffice it to say, 
therefore, that after first securing a great 
success at the St. James's Large Hall, just 
over thirty-six years ago, some two months 
afterwards I made my first appearance in 
London at the Egyptian Hall, hoping to 
remain there three months. I stayed for 
thirty - three years, until the hall was 
demolished for improvements in Piccadilly. 

In those days we practically had the field 
to ourselves, and I think I am correct in 
saying that I was the first London enter- 
tainer to give performances twice daily. 
Frequently I was able to advertise, "The 
only entertainment in London this after- 
noon." The late Sir Henry Irving — who, by 
the way, few people are probably aware, was 
something of a conjurer himself — was at the 
time very much interested in magic, and 
frequently came to see me at the Egyptian 
Hall. " You seem to get very good audiences," 
he said, at the end of one afternoon's per- 
formance. " Yes," I replied ; " on the whole 
I think we do decidedly better in the after- 
noon than in the evening." Whether or not 
these casual words of mine gave birth to the 
idea I cannot say ; but this much I know, 
that shortly afterwards Henry Irving started 
giving regular matinees himself. 

Perhaps the greatest success I ever achieved 
at the Egyptian Hall was made by Psycho, 
which was the first automaton I ever con- 
structed, and, by the same token, probably 
the best. The construction of that machine 
alone occupied me for considerably more 
than two years, during the whole of which 
time I was giving two very trying perform- 
ances daily. I could always work better in 
the quiet of the night than in the morning. 
My invariable custom, therefore, was to get 

home immediately after the evening's per- 
formance, have a cup of tea, and work until far 
into the small hours of the morning, generally 
turning into bed at about four o'clock, and 
rising at eight o'clock, or thereabouts, to con- 
tinue my work until obliged to leave for the 
Egyptian Hall. 

Like all my other mysteries, Psycho was 
the subject of countless so-called " imitations," 
some of which consisted of a figure which 
looked like Psycho seated upon the box, 
wherein a small boy was concealed. Such 
an imitation, for example, was produced at 
the Royal Aquarium, Westminster, three 
months after I introduced my automaton. I 
have learnt that "a correct imitation " of a 
mystery is anything which looks like the 
original to people who know nothing about 
it. And, this being so, I have little doubt 
that the majority of the public at first failed 
to see any great difference between the 
Aquarium imitation and the original Psycho. 

However, like murder, "fakes" will out, 
and following the usual course this par- 
ticular imitation was doomed to exposure at 
Gloucester, when a door in the side of the 
apparatus accidentally flew open, and the 
scared face of the boy within was seen peer- 
ing out in wonder as to what had happened. 

Now, there are some things which a 
mechanician cannot stand, and an " android," 
which is the technical definition of an auto- 
maton, or a machine in the human form, is 
one of those things. In consequence I was 
compelled to take steps to prove that, what- 
ever may have happened in the case of 
supposed imitations, the secret of my whist- 
player, Psycho, had never been discovered. 

To this end I offered a reward of two 
thousand pounds to anyone who could 
produce an automaton that could perform 
Psycho's movements under the same condi- 
tions. The reward of two thousand pounds 
was extensively advertised, and in this 
connection I would mention an amusing 
thing which happened. In a certain periodi- 
cal, in which my offer of two thousand 
pounds appeared, just below figured a notifi- 
cation to the effect that "a correct imitation 
of my automaton was to be disposed of, 
together with a dress coat, suitable for a 
stout gentleman, for the very reasonable 
sum of eight pounds." I have yet to hear 
that this curious assortment found a pur- 
chaser. Unless, however, human nature is 
even more gullible than many people suppose, 
I scarcely think it likely that it was disposed 
of, for even the most philanthropic bargain- 
vender wuld surely scarcely sell for eight 

" A 



pounds something which could be the means 
of earning for him two thousand pounds for 
about five minutes* conversation. 

Psycho, I would mention, gave altogether 
no fewer than four thousand consecutive 
performances. At the end of that time, 
however, his deli- 
cate ™ internal 
regions" became 
deranged — he 
suffered, I think, 
from a form of 
ner% - ous debility 
— and I removed 
him to my work- 
shop to give him 
a chance of re- 
covering his 
health. Since 
his retirement I 
have waited for 
over twenty years 
for an opportu- 
nity to execute 
the necessary 
surgical opera- 
tions, but none 
occurred until 
the beginning of 
this year, when 
my energetic 
partner, Mr. 
Devant, relieved 
me from stage 
work. That re- 
sponsibility taken 
off my hands has 
provided me with 
the necessary 
leisure, and since 

l*sYCiiO X tA *Vs(r)f\ 

Russ- Masculine.— " tt must be plain to everyone that f do not in 

any way influence the movements of the figure I V 


then I have been engaged on the task of 
nursing Psycho back to health. At the moment 
of writing I am glad to say that he is con- 
valescent, and if the improvement continues, 
as I think it will, Psycho will shortly make 
his bow to a new generation and, I sincerely 
hope, to many old admirers. 

During my career I have always found 
tt a labour of love to expose frauds of 
spiritualism, and in this connection I must 
refer to the notorious prosecution of " Dr," 
Slade, a noted " medium n from America, 
who professed to hold supernatural converse 
with the souls of the dead, for which obliging 
action he was accustomed to charge a fee 
of one sovereign. And that this pastime 
was ;i remunerative one can easily be under- 
stood when I say thai the w doctor ^ J w^s 
wont to start work between eight and nine 

o'clock in the morning, and until late at 
night his seances, which generally lasted 
about twenty minutes, were crowded with 
visitors, each of whom gladly paid a sovereign 
for the manifestations which "Dr." Slade 
professed to be able to perform, 

Here I may 
say that since I 
have been in 
London I have 
never known, a 
medium, and 
have never seen 
a performance, 
in which trickery 
could not enter. 
Indeed, I would 
go still further 
and add that 
every one that I 
have taken up I 
have succeeded 
in exposing. Rut 
the "Dr." Slade 
case was the most 
difficult 1 have 
ever had to deal 

In the first 
place, although 
I made several 
applications for a 
sitting, he per- 
sistently refused 
to allow me to 
come. In con- 
sequence, I had 
to find out the 
trick at second- 
hand — a matter 
of extreme difficulty. Eventually, however, 
I solved the mystery, and was called as a 
witness at the prosecution, the principal wit- 
nesses of wtnch were Professor Edwin Ray 
Iankester and Dr. Horatio I tonkin. 

The main question to be decided, of 
course, was whether the writing which Slade 
exhibited to visitors as that of his deceased 
wife's spirit was not, in reality, done by 
himself. The other two principal witnesses 
besides myself gave evidence that they had 
called at Slade's residence, where he had 
exhibited, and, having paid their money, were 
treated to the "spiritualistic performance." 
It appeared from their evidence that the slate 

was sometimes held bv Slade with one hand 


under the table. The identical table was 
produced irOrifililFt^lrfftddl much amusement. 

It »«tkW4 a ERSIIFV 9P «^H1«*Nkitclicn tabic 



with four legs and two flaps, and its size, 
when extended, was about four feet square. 
It had the ordinary framework around the 
centre portion of the table and the legs to 
the depth of six or eight inches, but when the 
flaps were extended it would appear to an 
ordinary sitter to be devoid of any frame- 
work. The table was turned over in court 
and examined underneath, when I saw that 
it was precisely the kind of table I should 
have made myself to perform the trick. 

So much for the table itself. Now for the 
trick, which I will explain exactly as I did in 
court. "It is a very good trick," I said to 
the magistrate, Mr. Flowers, when cross- 
examined, "and the point is this. It seems 
impossible that a man with a heavy slate can 
hold it and produce writing with the same 
fingers beneath the slate. It is, however, 
very easy, especially if there is a slight pro- 
jection or peg beneath the table, or a cross- 
piece, as in the table in court, to push the 
slate against and help to support it. The 
slate can supported by the thumb 
and the whole of the fingers left at liberty. 
The best way, however, of holding the pencil 
is not under a finger-nail, for that is imprac- 
ticable, but by an apparatus like this." Here 
I produced a little thimble with an attached 
pencil fastened by elastic beneath my sleeve, 
which disappeared by itself when let go. 
The thimble I made and painted to exactly 
resemble the end of my finger and nail. 
With this instantaneously fixed on the end of 
my finger I held the slate before me with my 
left hand, and resting the thumb of my right 
hand, and having the fingers loose on the 
other side, rapidly wrote a few words which, 
when the slate was handed up to the Bench, 
Mr. Flowers read, amid great laughter : " The 
spirits are present." 

" The peculiarity of writing in this way is 
that the lines are necessarily curved," I con- 
tinued, in explaining the trick. " In producing 
such writing under a table the operator would, 
by a slight kick, or by shuddering, take off 
the attention for a second, which time would 
be ample for him to turn the slate over. 
Another short message would then be written 
on the under side, and on the slate being 
produced there would be the appearance of 
writing on the side which had been apparently 
next to the table. Having two messages 
written on the slate is, of course, convenient, 
for the performer would read the upper one 
and, rubbing it out, would say, ' Now we will 
try again.' Then he would place the other 
side of the slate against the table and say to 
his visitor, € You hold the corner/ Of course, 

the point of the trick is that he turns the 
slate over beneath the table, and then, after 
it has been held close against the table, the 
writing appears again on the upper surface of 
the slate." Long messages can be written 
upon slates and rendered invisible, but in a 
short time they will appear as though they 
had just been written. 

When once the method by which " Dr." 
Slade " conversed with the souls of the 
dead " was explained, the whole fraud 
became clear, and eventually he was 
sentenced to three months' imprisonment. 
On a technical point, however, the indict- 
ment was quashed, and before this world- 
famous " medium " could be arrested again 
he had fled the country. Some years ago 
I learnt that he eventually died in America 
in abject poverty. For the latter statement 
of things I make no doubt that my exposure 
of the "fake" was largely responsible, but I 
cannot say that this weighs very heavily 
on my conscience, for a clearer and more 
iniquitous case of fraud, cloaked under that 
most convenient of all garments, spiritualism, 
I have seldom encountered. 

Of recent years few cases have created a 
greater sensation than Archdeacon Colley's 
one-thousand-pound challenge. Below is a 
copy of the actual challenge : — 

"I, T. (Archdeacon) Colley (Dio. Natal), 
Rector of Stockton, Warwickshire, have this 
day written to my bankers (the London City 
and Midland Branch Bank, Leamington) to 
pay to Mr. J. N. Maskelyne one thousand 
pounds, on his doing, with all the machinery 
he may need to bring to Stockton Rectory as 
a conjurer and professor of tricks illusionary, 
and not as a spirit-medium, any one of the 
things I, in my lectures during the week of 
last Church Congress, declared had been 
done in my presence, or what has since been 
done and written of in my pamphlet, now 
published, entitled * Spiritualism not Satanic.'" 

I was reluctant to accept the foolish chal- 
lenge, because it would prove nothing, and, 
in any case, I had no wish to appropriate 
Mr. Colley's money; but, on a long corre- 
spondence ensuing through the public Press, 
I was eventually driven to accept the 
challenge to save my reputation from suffer- 
ing. All I had to work on was a rambling 
statement printed in a pamphlet, in which 
the manifestations the Archdeacon described 
he declared took place more than thirty 
years ago, most of them through the 
" mediumshipi £ .pf ^y^ 1 Dr." Monck. One 
manifestation, however was very curious. 
In the pamphlet the Avchdeacon declared 




he wrapped 

r ral yards of 

tin round his 

, next his 

; and in 


de his cycle 

miles on a 


to visit a 

*ady medium. 

He then took 
the muslin off 
and put it into 
the medium's 
lap, whence it 
disappeared and 
was carried 
seventy miles in 
a few seconds by 
"psychic parcels 
post." For my 
part, I did not 
attempt that 
sanitary experi- 
ment, but selec- 
ted rather " the 
extrusion of a 
Dr. Monck's side 



materialized spirit from 
in a cloud of vapour." 

This illusion I performed, and afterwards 
claimed the reward, which, however, was 
withheld from me. I thereupon brought an 
action to recover it, intending to return the 
one thousand pounds if 1 got it, or to present 
it to charity. The case, from the point of 
view of the public, was apparently one of the 
most laughable ever heard in a court of law, 
and after a severe cross examination Mr. 
Colley's counsel admitted that I had per- 
formed one half of the manifestation, but 
that the manifestation was not quite com- 
plete unless I made the spirit return to my 

This point was pressed with all the force a 
clever counsel could command. The judge, 
also, gave it as his opinion that I ought to 
have taken the young lady back into my 
body, but added, "No doubt, if Mr. 
Maskelyne could produce the spirit, he could 
also make her disappear." The jury, however, 
decided against me, doubtless upon this point 
alone, whereupon I explained that the reason 
that I did not make the spirit disappear as 
she was, was that to do so would spoil the 
trick as an illusion, in that it would produce 
an anti-climax. I, however, stated in court 
that I would at once go and perform that 
part of the manifestation, and, having done 
so, would bring another action, but before I 

could get back 
to St. George's 
Hall a special 
message had 
arrived from 
Mr. Colley's 
solicitor which 
ran as follows : 
11 Dear Sir,— My 
client instructs 
me to withdraw 
the challenges 
issued by him to 
yourself. Please 
take notice that 
the same are 
hereby with- 
drawn." On 
that account, and 
on that account 
only, I was pre- 
vented from pro- 
secuting the 
matter farther. 
I would say, 
however, that 
this case is pro- 
bably the last battle I shall ever fight against 
the frauds of spiritualism. 

By this time I make no doubt that space 
presses, and therefore, by way of conclusion, 
I will refer to a question which constantly 
crops up in every walk of life, and which, 
probably, I have been asked more frequently 
than any other : " What prospect does the 
occupation of a magician present to a youth 
who has a taste for it?" In reference to 
magic, as in so many other cases, my answer 
must be that the prospect of success depends 
very largely upon the youth himself. There 
are very few prizes and very many blanks, 
and in my opinion it is almost as difficult to 
become a successful illusionist as it is to 
become a successful politician. 

Let the educated man try to invent a new 
proposition in Euclid, and he will realize 
something of the difficulty to be faced in 
producing a new illusion. Indeed, without 
originality and inventive ability there is small 
hope of achieving success as an illusionist, 
for to copy others and merely do what others 
can do inevitably means very little more than 
a bare existence. No ; the man who takes to 
magic as a means of livelihood must first of 
all be an inventor, and that he cannot be 
unless he has had a mechanical training. 
Even then al! the training in the world will 
not make a man an inventor if the faculty of 
invention is not bom in him. But I would 




add that, to those 
who take a real 
interest in the 
art of invention, 
the life possesses 
c h a r m s which 
amply compen- 
sate one for the 
great labour the 
production of a 
really novel in- 
vention entails. 

"Is your life 
an arduous one ?" 
.is another query 
very often put to 
me. Without a 
doubt, my career 
has been a very 
arduous one, but, 
at the same time, 
it certainly has 
not interfered 
with my health, 
for although now 
I have actually 
reached man's 
allotted span of 


three score years 
and ten, since 
the age of foi^r 
— for sixty - six 
years — I have 
never once had 
to keep to m 
bed for a sing 
day. Surely n 
more conclusi\ r 
proof could be 
offered that 
magician's liff 
to put it vei 
mildly, is an e> 
ceedingly health 
one, despite iti 
occupying in so 
wholesale p 
manner the 
attention o . 
spurious imita 
tors, of whoir, 
German makers 
of conjuring 
apparatus are 
the greatest 


<■<• '•"■'"• '* '•' ' '"""' r OF MICHIGAN 








» . 










| LL I ask of life," 
gazing dreamily 
out to sea, " is 
to be loved 
for myself." 

*"For yourself? What do you mean?" 
L.'jtghed Miss Thorn pk ins, looking at him 
- " f schievously. " You don't expect anyone 
ttr* love you for Harry Lauder or the 
jj^chbishop of Canterbury, do you?" 

'Rudgwick explained that when he said 
luVed for himself he meant as opposed to 
I 4ng loved for his money. 

'„** But you haven't goi any," objected Miss 
Thompkins, who found the cold facts oflife 
qflite sufficiently puzzling without these un- 
necessary excursions into the realms of 

"But suppose I had," persisted the young 
man, with all a lover's obstinacy. "Ten 
thousand founds a year, say. Would you 
?till love me ? " 

Miss Thorn pkins was dubious* 
"I dare say I should still be fond of you 
in a sort of way," she admitted, after some 
thought. u But 1 expect I should find myself 
getting gradually more and more drawn to 
your income. But why let us talk about it ? 
You haven't got it. If you had, it would 


"The dream of my life has 
always been to marry some dear, 

simply spoil everything," 

Mistaking Rudg wick's look 
for one of astonishment, Miss 
hastened to explain. 

Vpi. xxxix* — 4. 

of anxiety 



nice man" (she pressed Rudg- 
wick's hand affectionately) " who 
was quite, quite poor, and to 
help him and inspire him in 
his struggle up the ladder of 
success. That's what Vm going to do for you. 
Don't you think it will be just splendid?" 

" Splendid ! " agreed Rudgwick, who had 
never struggled up anything without the 
assistance of a lift. " Absolutely gorgeous ! " 
" Very well, then, dear," said Miss Thomp- 
kins, holding out her hand so that he might 
help her up from the shingle. " If somebody 
dies and leaves you a lot of money just 
before our wedding-day you'd better not tell 
me anything about it, or I shall probably 
throw you over in favour of some poor but 
honest rival." 

The words were lightly spoken, but they 
succeeded, with some little assistance from a 
typical seaside mattress, in keeping Rudgwick 
awake half that ni&ht. Over and over again 
he asked himself, as he tossed and turned, 
was he to lose the happiness which had 
seemed to be within his grasp simply because 
a wicked uncle had elected to saddle him 
with an incubus of something like a quarter 
of a million sterling ? 

Rudg wick's case wan peculiarly deserving. 
He suffered from an incurably romantic dis- 
position- Do what he would, it never seemed 
to get any better. Now, to be romantic in 



ness knows ; but to be romantic in circum- 
stances which are disgustingly comfortable is 
practically impossible. Rudgwick found this 
out at a very early stage in his career. Still, 
he continued to do his best, though the 
results were far from encouraging. 

As he had quite truthfully explained to 
Miss Thompkins, all he asked of life was to 
be loved for himself. Not much to ask, 
perhaps ; but with so formidable a rival as 
an income running well into five figures one 
is not likely to get it. Rudgwick, in point of 
fact, did not get it, or even go near getting 
it. What used to happen, with monotonous 
regularity, was this. 

Rudgwick would get engaged without any 
difficulty to some charming girl who knew all 
about the very satisfactory state of his invest- 
ments, and then— just as his friends were 
beginning to search for the best shop at 
which to buy something costing not more 
than thirty shillings, suitable for presentation 
to a wealthy man from whom much subse- 
quent hospitality was to be expected — that 
ass would go and, as he called it, " test " the 
sincerity of his fiande's affections by suddenly 
announcing to her that he had lost all his 
money except a beggarly three hundred 
pounds a year. One or two of the darlings, 
I believe, had the immortal impudence to 
murmur some amusing nonsense to the 
effect that it was only reluctance to being a 
drag on a young man just on the threshold 
of life that compelled them to release him 
from his engagement; but most of them 
lost no time in calling for their big brothers 
to come upstairs and heave Rudgwick out 
into the street. Afterwards, of course, when 
they discovered the trick that he had played 
on them, they threatened him with legal 
proceedings ; but Rudgwick paid up quite 
cheerfully. Anything was better, he declared, 
than being tied for life to a woman who did 
not love you. Friendly attempts to make 
him understand that this was not half so 
exhausting as being tied for life to a woman 
who did love you he received with disfavour. 

Consequently, when • Rudgwick met Miss 
Thompkins on the esplanade of one of our 
most popular seaside resorts and decided, 
directly their eyes met, that the only possible 
girl had at last come into his life, he also, 
decided that on this occasion his love story 
should begin a little differently. Never again 
would he give himself the trouble of falling 
passionately in love with a woman— only to 
discover, after living blissfully in a fool's 
paradise for a time, that the facts of the case 
compelled an affirmative reply to the torturing 

question — " Is it my money she wants ? " 
This time the object of his adoration should 
be given not the slightest inkling that he was 
a man of means until she had shown that she 
possessed sufficient force of character to love 
a man for what he was, and not for what he 
had got. Then she should have her reward. 
In the meantime she should be wooed in 
some modest, yet withal gentlemanly, guise. 

After mature consideration Rudgwick came 
to the conclusion that the rdle of bank-clerk 
combined modesty and gentility in about the 
most suitable proportions. A woman did not 
love a bank-clerk because he was a bank-clerk, 
but because, in spite of the souring nature of 
his occupation, he had contrived to remain a 
very charming fellow. 

It was, then, as Mr. Ballpen, a bank-clerk 
on his holiday, that Rudgwick, having 
vacated his palatial quarters at the Esplanade 
Hotel, took up his abode at Magenta House 
— the select boarding-establishment to which 
he had tracked the fair unknown. Rudgwick 
had never been in a boarding-house before, 
the best rooms in the best available hotel 
having hitherto always met his modest needs 
quite satisfactorily ; but for the sake of 
settling himself comfortably in life he was 
prepared to run some risks. 

Once established in Magenta House, 
Rudgwick lost no time in setting about the 
task of winning Miss Thompkins's young 
affections. And they were worth winning — 
in spite of the fact that her papa was 
apparently not one of the old noblesse (to be 
precise, he was a speculative builder of some 
eminence), and that her relentless godparents 
had pushed her out on to life's stormy waters 
with such a millstone as " Ermyntrude " 
about her neck. She was about as nice a 
girl as any man could wish to meet. 

" Ermyntrude/' it must be confessed, was a 
bit of a shock to Rudgwick just at first. Like 
most of us, he had always imagined that it 
was the Mrs. Harris of feminine nomencla- 
ture, invented by alleged comic authors for 
their own blackguardly purposes. To discover 
that not only did such a name exist, but was 
actually borne by the very woman with whom 
he had every intention of falling madly in 
love, was rather overwhelming. For % the 
matter of that, though, his own name was 
Oswald ; so, undoubtedly, there would have 
to be a fair amount of give and take on both 

Before he had enjoyed five minutes of her 
acquaintance Rudgwick had the good for- 
tune to do something that attracted Miss 
Thompkins's very favourable attention. 



The guests at Magenta House were dis- 
cussing (sotio voce) the hot lunch (much 
virtue, unless the prospectus lied* lay in that 
matter of temperature), and Rudgwick had 
just had placed before him some savoury 
mess that a subtle instinct of self-preserva- 
tion warned him would probably be a little 
too rich for his comparatively untrained 
digestion. Debating what he should do, 
Rudgwick's eye rested thoughtfully on 
Sancho, the dog of the house— a pug, well 
on id his teenSj who spent most of his time 
wandering asthmatically about the rooms, 
tripping people up and making himself 
generally obnoxious. 

After lunch, when they were all standing 
out on the front doorstep, hoping that the 
sea-breeze might pull them together a little, 
Miss Thompkins commented favourably upon 
Rudgwick's fondness for animals* 

" It was good of you, Mr, Ballpen ! tf she 
exclaimed, admiringly- " Fancy giving all 
the best bits off" your plate to that horrid 
little pug! I like to 
see a man deny- 
ing himself for the 
sake of a dog. 
Generally, men 
are so greedy," 

Rudgwick gave 
a careless, oh- 
that's-nothing sort 
of laugh, and ex- 
plained to her 
that dogs were a 
passion with him. 
He would do any- 
thing for a dog. 
Then Miss 
Thompkins told 
him about /ret dog* 
It was a wonder- 
ful animal, it 
seemed ; quite the 
talk of the suburb 
from which Miss 
hailed. She had 
been thinking of 
showing it ? only 
the difficulty was 
to know for which 
class it ouLjht to 
t be entered. The 
experts appeared 
to be divided as 
to whether it was 
a dachshund or a 
red setter; it had 

such a look of both breeds. Rudgwick 
hastened to say that if Miss Thompkins 
would allow him to call when he got back 
to town and inspect the dog, probably he 
would be able to give her an authoritative 
opinion, one way or the other. He rather 
hinted that the Kennel Club frequently 
consulted him as a sort of unofficial referee, 
to unravel these intricate cases. Miss 
Thompkins thanked him very graciously for 
his kind offer and said that she would speak 
to pa about it. 

A fortnight later, under the lee of 
Breakwater No, 27, Miss Thompkins was 
confessing shyly to Rudgwick that she did 
love him. 

He could hardly believe his ears. Earth, 
sea, and sky became mingled in one vast 
blur. The music of a million harps swept 
through the air. Was it possible that at last 
he had found true love ? 

Thinking from his wildly sceptical ex- 
pression that he had perhaps not heard 






her aright, Miss Thompkins repeated her 
words : — 

" Yes, dear Oswald, I do love you. And 
I will be yours." 

The turbulence of Rudgwick's emotions 
found expression at last in one painfully- 
stammered word : — 


The question was just a little startling ; 
but Miss Thompkins, after a momentary 
hesitation, answered quite frankly:— 

" Well, dear, as you ask me, I will tell you. 
I love you — not because you are particularly 
good-looking or clever, but because you are 
nice ; and I am willing to marry you because 
I do think you want a woman to look after 
you more than any man I ever met. I shall 
be able to give you just the help you need." 

Just as Rudgwick was about to fold her in 
his arms, and assure her that the only help he 
would require from his sweet little wife would 
be in the direction of spending his super- 
fluous wealth, Miss Thompkins went on : — 

" Papa will be furious, though ! I'm afraid 
he will never give his consent. But I don't 
care ; I will marry you without it ! " 

This was the point at which Rudgwick's 
romantic disposition elected to butt in and 
proceed to play the hopeless fool. 

It had been his intention to reveal to Miss 
Thompkins the truth about himself directly 
he was assured that she loved him for his 
own sake and not for the sake of what he 
had got ; but her last remark suggested 
possibilities which Rudgwick felt he simply 
could not allow to go unexploited. Hitherto 
the course of true love had always been for 
him as smooth as a water-chute. At the 
slightest indication of a penchant the lady, 
her parents, and everybody concerned tumbled 
over themselves in their anxiety to make 
things as easy for him as possible. But here 
was a vastly different state of affairs. A 
delicious vista of clandestine meetings, stormy 
scenes with an infuriated father, and possibly 
— glory of glories ! — an elopement at the end 
of it all, spread itself before Rudgwick's 
mental vision. To cut this moving drama 
short at the end of the very first act would 
be nothing short of a crime. 

So Rudgwick allowed the poor, innocent 
girl at his side to rattle on with her clever 
schemes for making ends meet on an income 
of less than one hundred and fifty pounds a 

While things were going on in this pleasant, 
serio-comic fashion, Ermyntrude's father sud- 
denly took it into his head one Saturday 
morning that he would like to run down and 

spend a week-end in his daughter's society. 
He gave no intimation of his coming, his 
idea being to afford his daughter a pleasant 
little surprise. As things turned out, it was 
Mr. Thompkins who got the little surprise. 

Rather unfortunately, Rudgwick and 
Ermyntrude were out when he arrived, so 
Mr. Thompkins had an opportunity to enjoy 
a long and somewhat perturbing chat with 
the chatelaine of Magenta House — a lady 
amongst whose faults a lack of powers of 
observation or undue secretiveness could cer- 
tainly not be reckoned. Matters of the first 
importance, to which Ermyntrude had not 
made the remotest reference in her daily 
picture-postcard to the home circle, were 
brought to Mr. Thompkins's knowledge. 

His manner, when his daughter and Rudg- 
wick came in together to tea, after a long, 
delirious tete-a-ttte behind their favourite 
breakwater, was the reverse of genial. 

"I didn't catch your name," he said 
truculently to Rudgwick, when Ermyntrude, 
obviously flustered by the unexpected appari- 
tion of her papa, had floundered through an 
incoherent introduction. 

" My name," said Rudgwick, pleasantly, 
"is Ballpen— Oswald Ballpen." 

"Ballpen? Ballpen ?" said Mr. Thompkins, 
turning the name distastefully on his tongue, 
as if he were a wine-taster about to pass 
sentence on some alleged claret. " I want 
to have a few words with you, Mr. Ballpen." 

"Certainly," was Rudgwick's affable re- 
joinder. He leant easily against the mantel- 
piece, prepared to listen cheerfully to any- 
thing which Mr. Thompkins might have to 
say. Suddenly he caught sight of Ermyn- 
trude making violent signals to him from 
behind her father's back to sit down. Slightly 
mystified, he took her pantomimic advice, 
for which he was afterwards not sorry. Miss 
Thompkins knew what she was about She 
had seen her father having a few words with 
young men before. 

" And now, Mr. Ballpen," said Thompkins 
ptre> leaning forward in his seat, with a fat 
hand planted aggressively on either knee, 
and plunging with praiseworthy directness 
in medias res, " I should like you just to tell 
me what you mean by having the sauce to 
make up to my daughter? What are you, 
hey ? " 

" I'm a clerk in a bank," replied Rudgwick, 
with unruffled composure. He had never 
before enjoyed the experience of being 
regarded as an undesirable parity and he 
found it delightful. u I'm a clerk in a bank ; 
and as you are evidently of m inquiring turn 



of mind, I may add that my salary is at 
present one hundred and ten pounds per 
annum. Some day, if I am lucky, it may be 
a little more. Not much, though." 

A large vein in Mr. Thonipkins's forehead 
began to behave like a cinematograph picture. 
He turned to his daughter and said, in an 
awful voice : — 

w Leave the room, Ermyntrude j I'm going 
to talk/ 

" Nonsense!" said Rudgwick, laying a 
detaining hand on Miss Thorn pkins'a arm as 
she rose hastily to obey the paternal mandate, 
* s Stay where you are, dear, We're both on 
in this performance." 

Performance was undoubtedly the word, 
though Rudgwick had long ago lost sight of 
the fact that he was only playing a part, 

* l May I ask,' ? demanded Mr, Thorn pkins 5 
after a brief struggle with some obscure 
laryngitical trouble, "if you propose to 
marry my daughter, Mr. Ballspond ? n 

" 1 do/* was Rudgwick's terse reply. ** I 
love her ; and she has given me to under- 
stand that she loves me. There does not, 

therefore, seem to be anything in the way of 
our happiness." 

M Loves you!" howled Mr. Thompkins, 
rising from his chair so that his emotions 
might have freer play, " Loves you ! A rat 
of a clerk " (he rendered the offensive word 
doubly so by making it rhyme with "work ") 
— "a rat of a bank-clerk, when the biggest 
house and estate agency in North London is 
only waiting for a suitable opportunity to say 
the word to her ? Do you think a daughter 
of mine is going to pig it on a hundred and 
ten pounds per annum when she could have 
the thick end of two thousand ? Do you 
think she's clean off her onion ? * 

u No," replied Rudgwick, blandly ; 
" although that vegetable appears with 
unnecessary frequency at the table here, I 
cannot say that Ermyntrude has yet shown 
any marked symptoms of satiety," 

Mr, Thompkins seized from the mantel- 
piece behind him a colossal mock Dresden 
vase which had been giving Rudgwick bad 
dreams ever since his first view of it, and 
balanced it in his twitching fingers for a 


Original from 

U-1&7 ^THOIIPKINS, 'IF YOtfJflpp^^yip^ 



minute or more. Then, to Rudgwick's deep 
regret, he replaced it, uninjured. 

"Then, might I further ask," inquired Mr. 
Thompkins, when his voice was once more 
under control, "whether you think Tm going 
to keep you ? Or have you " (this with 
biting sarcasm) " private money of your 
own ? " 

" I have no private means," answered 
Rudgwick, boldly. He was determined to 
put Ermyntrude's affection to the severest 
possible test. " But that really doesn't 
matter, Mr. Thompkins," he went on, cheer- 
fully. "There are other things in this world 
besides money. You don't know it, but 1 
know it; and Ermyntrude, God bless her, 
knows it too." 

Ermyntrude did know it. Before her 
eyes there swam a beatific vision of herself 
mothering this helpless young man along 
life's stormy way. 

"Now, look here," said Mr. Thompkins, 
squaring himself resolutely. " I've had 
enough of this rot. It's sickening. Ermyn- 
trude, go and pack your box ; you come 
back to London with me by the very next 

train. And as for you, Mr. Balderdash " 

(Mr. Thompkins seemed to find some slight 
measure of relief in these variations of what 
he fondly imagined to be Rudgwick's name), 
"as for you — if ever I catch you trying to 
communicate with my daughter again, in any 
form whatsoever — well, you look out, that's 

" Thanks," replied Rudgwick, quietly. 
" I will." 

Mr. Thompkins was as good as his word. 
In half an hour Ermyntrude, weeping wildly 
out of the window of a rickety fly, was being 
borne towards the station. Rudgwick waited 
on the steps of Magenta House only long 
enough to wave her out of sight, and then 
hurried round to the garage. His chauffeur 
being — as the result of three weeks' idleness — 
a great deal too intoxicated to be entrusted 
with the guidance of anything more compli- 
cated than a wheelbarrow, Rudgwick drove 
himself back to town, singing wildly to him- 
self as the car flew over the roads. Life 
was worth living after all, he told himself. 
Romance was not yet dead. 

Then followed for Rudgwick the happiest 
three months that he had ever known. 
Existence ceased to be a dreary, drab reality, 
and became instead a delightful comedy, 
at which Rudgwick sat and watched his 
own adventures with breathless interest. 
Incredible strategy was required to keep 
up communications with Ermyntrude. The 

intelligence which he expended merely upon 
smuggling his voluminous correspondence 
into her hands was in excess of all the 
previous intellectual efforts of his life put 
together. Rudgwick was seen no more at 
race-meetings — to which cause the bankruptcy 
of more than one leviathan of the ring was 
directly attributed ; his motor-cars ceased to 
enrich county exchequers; the wits of his 
various clubs had to search for a new 
inspiration. Rudgwick had no time for 
anything but waiting at street corners in 
the rain on the off-chance of being able 
to steal five minutes' hurried conversation 
with the object of his affections. So 
much ardour, however, did he contrive to 
compress into these brief interviews that at 
last, after saying no fewer than two hundred 
times that she would never do it, Ermyntrude 
consented one evening to elope with him 
on the following Tuesday. She thoughtfully 
selected Tuesday because that was her 
father's busy day — the houses he had finished 
on the previous Saturday fell down on 
Tuesday, or something of that kind. Rudg- 
wick could scarcely contain himself when 
he heard her whisper assent to his compli- 
cated scheme. 

" My darling ! " he cried, in tones of 
rapture so ecstatic as to cause the waitress — 
they were in a tea-shop — to come over and 
ask if he felt ill. " My darling 1 " he went 
on, in a cavernous whisper, when the waitress 
had haughtily retired out of earshot. " Can 
it really be that you love me enough to make 
this sacrifice for my sake ? " 

Miss Thompkins — who, thanks to the 
paternal behaviour, was finding the assertion 
that there is no place like home to be 
capable of more than one interpretation — 
assured her adorer that flying to his arms 
was not at all in the nature of a sacrifice. 

" But I'm so poor ! " murmured Rudgwick, 
sadly, watching her narrowly out of the 
corner of his eye. 

" Well, of course, a hundred and ten per 
ann. isn't much," admitted Miss Thompkins. 
" But I can manage ; you see if I can't. But 
you'll be getting your rise soon, with me at 
your side to inspire you ; and, anyhow, papa 
is sure to come round." 

" Not to our house, I hope," said Rudg- 
wick, anxiously. 

As they walked home arm in arm in the 
gloom of the December evening they settled 
the details of their plans for the momentous 
Tuesday. Early in the morning, long before 
the rest of the household was astir, Ermyn- 
trude was to slip out of the side-gate and join 



her lover, who would have a taxi-cab waiting 
down the road. A brief visit to a registry- 
office, lunch at the Trocadero {Miss Thorn p- 
kins opened her eyes at the magnificence of 
this item), and then oflT for a happy fortnight 
to some jolly seaside place, the exact locality 
of which Rudgwick refused for the time being 
to divulge. He smiled to himself as he 
thought of what Ermyntrude would say when 
she found that the jolly seaside place was 
Monte Carlo. 

At a quarter to seven on a foggy December 
morning the streets of London are uninviting 
Rudgwick, shivering in the bleak air> found 
that Romance has its trials as well as its joys. 
Anticipation of the day before him had kept 
him awake practically all night, and he had 
an extremely bad cold in the head. Much 
as he loved Ermyntrude he could 
find it in his heart to be vexed 
with her for being twenty minutes 
behind time. If a woman could 
not be punctual for her elope- 
ment, what could she be punctual 
for? It was cold hanging about 
in this raw air, and a tiresome 
policeman kept coming up and 
looking at him in a very annoying 
way. Rudgwick made his way 
cautiously towards the side-gate of 
the Thorn pkins mansion. It was 
so dark that, even if anybody was 
about, there was no danger of his 
being recognized. Not a sign of 
Ermyntrude anywhere. Growing 
desperate with 
impatience, he 
opened the gate 
very quietly and 
put his head and 
shoulders inside. 
he found himself 
roughly seized by 
two men who leapt 
from behind the 
wall and thrown 
heavily to the 
ground. One of 
the men — approxi- 
mate weight, as 
es t i m a ted by 
Rudgwick at the 
time, twenty stone 
- — knelt on his 
chest, while the 
other blew a police 
whistle with dis- 
turbing violence. 

The officious policeman, of whose face 
Rudgwick had grown so tired during his 
vigil outside, came lumbering up to the 

A voice which Rudgwick recognized as 
that of Ermyntrude^ father suggested : — 

" We'll take the perishing little image into 
the greenhouse." 

4t Right you are, sir!" said the officious 
constable. " I've T ad 'im under observation 
for some time. I believe we shall find he's 

"Yes, I dare say we shall," agreed Mr. 
Thompkins, dryly, " You don't suppose I 
should want your help if it was nobody, 
do you ? There — take hold of his legs," 

Between them they carried Rudgwick — his 
clothes a mass of clammy mould — into the 




greenhouse, and sat him on the floor with 
his back against an empty barrel. 

"And now we're going to have a little 
chat," said Mr. Thompkins, carefully closing 
the door of the greenhouse. 

" Constable ! " exclaimed Rudgwick, point- 
ing an accusing finger at Mr. Thompkins, 
"I give that man in charge for a most 
unwarrantable assault — of which you were 
a witness." 

When the constable had done wiping his 
eyes, and had told the others for the fourth 
time how much the magistrate would enjoy 
this joke when he heard it, and had made a 
careful note of the prisoner's bon mot in his 
book, Mr. Thompkins said : — 

" Oh, I know this chap well, constable. 
He goes in for being a comic. That's not 
half so funny as some of the things he says — 
and does. He came here this morning to 
elope with my daughter. That's not bad, 
is it?" 

" Elope with your daughter, sir !" exclaimed 
the policeman, in horrified accents. " That's 
most suspicious. What is he, might I ask ? " 

" He says he's a bank-clerk," said Mr. 
Thompkins, looking at Rudgwick with 
ineffable contempt. "A bank-clerk on one 
hundred and ten pounds per annum." 

" In that case, sir," said the constable, 
very decidedly, " I think we'd better search 

Rudgwick's temperature dropped a few 
more degrees with apprehension. Only the 
day before he had called at the bank to lay 
in a good supply of funds for the honey- 
moon. Rudgwick's idea of what constituted 
a cosy little sum for a month's jaunt on the 
Continent ran well into four figures. At the 
present moment he had on his person bank- 
notes to the value of something like twelve 
hundred pounds. 

And there was another thing. 

Only the week before his bank had been 
defrauded of large sums by a very ingenious 
swindler. Rudgwick remembered that yes- 
terday he had chaffed the cashier about it 
while the latter was getting him his money. 
The cashier did not seem to think the inci- 
dent so humorous as Rudgwick had tried to 
make out. Supposing the constable found 
this large sum of money on him — in notes 
stamped with the impress of the very bank 
which all the world knew had been so 
recently robbed. Good heavens ! he might 
think the worst. 

It was exactly what the constable did think. 
Very few constables ever think anything else. 
P.-C. Parker's eyes grew bigger and bigger as 

he counted the notes in Rudgwick's case. 
When he had got over the thousand hope 
gave way to certainty. P.-C. Parker saw him- 
self a sergeant on a comfortable West-end 
beat. P.-C. Parker also saw himself receiving 
a very handsome present from a grateful 
board of directors. 

" Good 'eavens ! " he cried, trembling with 
excitement. " I believe we got the man that 
robbed the London and North - Western 
Bank. I've heard that one of the clerks was 
suspected. I must take this chap to the 
station at once, sir." 

" Must you ? " Mr. Thompkins's tone 
implied acute disappointment. "Couldn't 
you let me step on and off him once or 
twice before he goes? You'd better," he 
urged, as the constable shook his head 
doubtfully. "He might be violent if we 
don't hammer a little of the devil out of 
him as a precaution." 

The constable was just beginning to show 
some signs of giving way to Mr. Thompkins's 
kindly importunity, when the door of the 
greenhouse was flung violently open and 
Ermyntrude tottered in, followed by two 
dishevelled domestics. 

" We tried to 'old 'er, sir, as you told us," 
one of them panted, " but she fought like a 
deeming ! " 

By this time Ermyntrude was on her knees 
at Rudgwick's side. 

" My poor darling ! " she moaned, kissing 
his grimy cheeks. " What have these 
wretches done to you ? " 

Rudgwick gave her to understand in a 
faint voice that the recital of what they had 
not done would involve less of a physical 
strain. Ermyntrude turned flashing eyes 
upon her father. 

" I'll never forgive you for this — never ! " 

" That'll do, Erm," her father replied, not 
unkindly. " You'll forgive me fast enough ; 
and you'll be everlasting grateful to me for 
having saved you from this young scoundrel. 
Do you know what he is? A thief 1 The 
man that robbed the London and North- 
Western Bank ! Look at that ! " 

He pointed to the bundle of notes in the 
constable's hand. 

" Fourteen hunder and fifty pun, / make 
it," announced P.-C. Parker in a tone which 
implied that grave suspicion would attach 
to anybody who made it something else. 

" Where could a chap on a hundred and 
ten a year get all that money ? " demanded 
Mr. Thompkins, relentlessly, of his daughter, 
" It's as clear as mud that he stole it— to 

elope with y^^p MICHIGAN 



u How much— how much will he get, do 
you think ? h> faltered Miss Thompkins, after a 
heart -breaking [jause, 

( * Five years — if he's lucky," came the reply 
from the legal expert present 

address on my card, and ask them to send 
one of my motors here to take me home, 
I shall be very much obliged." 

It was a long time before they could be 
oersuaded to do it. When the motor-car at 


Ermyntrude turned to Rudgwick and 
murmured, shakily : — 

*' Oswald, I'll wait for you. I know it 
was wrong of you to steal ; but you did 
it for my sake. I'm to blame as much as 
you are," 

Rudgwick opened his eyes arid looked 
round him wearily. He had had about 
enough romance for one morning, 

" My name," he said, dully, " is not Ball- 
pen, but Rudgwick, as that intelligent ass in 
blue wili discover if he takes the trouble to 
look a little more closely into that pocket- 
book of mtne. I am not a bank clerk. I'm 
romantic — that's what's the matter with me; 
but I don't think I shall ever have a recur- 
rence of the attack, I pretended to be a 
bank- clerk for reasons which nobody here, 
not even you, Ermyntrude, would under- 
stand. If you will kindly telephone to the 

last arrived, with Rudgwick's valet, and his 
doctor and the manager of the bank and 
several other people, who seemed to be 
very much perturbed at seeing his condition, 
Rudgwick asked to be left alone for a few 
minutes with Miss Thompkins. 

"Well, Ermyntrude, I suppose it's got to 
be good bye?" he said, sadly, when the sound 
of Mr. Thompkms's excited explanations and 
apologies had been partially deadened by 
an intervening door* "I'm not very poor, 
unfortunately ; and I rather gather that a 
poor and struggling husband — whom you 
rcnild help and look after is the only sort 
you have any use for ? " 

"My de,ir boy," replied Ermyntrude, with 
robust good sense, "you want looking after 
more than any human being I ever met. I 
don't intend ever to let you out of my sight 

by Google 

VoL xjtxfr- — 5» 

Original from 

? THE 


A Symposium 
of Well-Known 

LTHOUGH buying 
and selling of one 
kind or another is 
responsible for many 
a romance, yet one 
does not often hear 
stories of auction -room incidents:. 
The mere selling, it is true, of so 
much bricks and mortar, so many 
tons of machinery, so many sheep 
or horses, or so many acres of land, 
looks on the face of it a prosaic 
enough affair; J^ut in these matters, 
as tn everything else, there are 
almost always wheels within wheels and 
undercurrents of hidden feeling which may 
lead to all manner of unexpected denouements* 
The auctioneer, seated at his desk, has 
countless opportunities of studying human 
nature which are never given to other men. 
and at some time or other each and all of 
them are brought face to face with incidents 
of an unusual kind. Even brinks and mortar, 
though they represent nothing more than 
their actual face value to one man* may be 
rich in valuable association to another; while 
land, horses, jewels, and articles of virtu vary 
from time to time so enormously in their 
intrinsic value that excitement is bound to 
rule high when those who covet them en- 
deavour to become their possessors. In the 
hope of entertaining our readers we have, 
therefore, with the kind assistance of Mr. 
Arthur W, Bracked, collected from a number 
of eminent auctioneers some account of the 

most striking auction- 
room incident each 
remembers, Many are 
amusing ; some are 
curious ; a few are 
bizarre, but all are in- 

Mr. A. W. Brackett (of Messrs. 
Brackett and Sons, of Tunbridge 

The most exciting experience I 
ever had in pursuit of my profession 
was an occasion when the proceed- 
ings were disturbed by a swarm of 
wasps. We had already that day 
been subjected to the interference 
of a sheriff's officer, but for him 
we had made preparations, and he 
was fain to admit that he was 
not strong enough to carry out his 
orders. The wasps proved much more 
troublesome visitors. The rostrum had been 
placed on their nest, and it was not long 
before they made their presence known. 
The sale had hardly begun when we 
had to adjourn to another part of the 
yard, but even there we had not seen 
the last of them, for one member of 
the audience who declared himself to be 
tl wasp proof ty thrust his bare arm into 
the nest, and then walked in and out of 
the audience with the wasps crawling harm- 
lessly about him. Nor was this the end of 
his performance, for he next went on to 
swallow the wasps one after another, placing 
them on his tongue and washing them down 
with long draughts of beer. Needless to 
say, great disturbance was caused, for the 
swarms of wasps buzzed round the wasp- 
eater wherever he went, incidentally stinging 

an " ftis&gWflSitliBflr 1 ,o get ta 




their way + This diverted attention from the 
business in hand to such an extent that I 
had to order him off. He explained his 
immunity hy saying that the wasps "did not 
like the taste of him," and I think anyone 
who saw him would agree that they showed 
considerable discrimination ! 

(the well-known 

Mr* Thomas Martin 

Exeter auctioneer). 

My most exciting reminiscence is, I think, 
associated with a sale of furniture that I con- 
ducted some time ago in the country, I was 
engaged to make a valuation for probate, and 
amongst the other articles of furniture was a 
rocking-horse, which I valued in the sum of 
halt a guinea. The family not being able to 
aiiree as to an equitable division of the 
effects* I was instructed to realize the same 
at auction, At the auction all went well for 
some time, until I came to this particular 
rocking horse, which was started at half a 
crown. An altercation was going on at 
the time with the wives of two of the sons, 
and between them the competition for the 
rocking-horse was carried on until it 
realized twelve pounds fifteen shillings, at 
which price it was secured by one of the 
wives, who had travelled from Liverpool to 

purchase, as she said, amongst other things, 
this rocking-horse, her husband having told 
her to be sure to bring it home for Jacky, 
which she did, and I hope not only that 
Jacky had many rides upon it, but that her 
husband was satisfied with the transaction ! 

Mr* R Charles Giddy (of Messrs, Giddy 
and (jiddy), 

The most curious recollection I have is, I 
think, that of an incident which illustrates 
very strikingly the tricky ways of some smart 
second- rate brokers, and the pains they will 
be at in order to take any advantage they 
can of the slips which auctioneers or their 
clerks cannot help making sometimes. It 
was quite in my early days as an auctioneer 
that I was at a sale where there was put 
up one of those combination washstands 
with mirror and other fittings attached- 
The washstand and the fittings had 
been set down in the catalogue as two 
lots, and a dealer who had obviously 
read through the catalogue with keen 
accuracy duly observed this fact. "Halloa!" 
said our friend ; ** I fancy I can make 
some money out efj ^^ And this was the 



different people and under different names, 
and he accordingly attended the sale and 
bought the washstand under the name of 
Brown, and then the fittings under that of 
Robinson. The washstand being sent to 
Brown, he at once demanded the fittings as 
well. " Do you think I should have bought 
the washstand," he said, " if I hadn't also 
purchased the fittings to go with it ? " Our 
representative thought that there was some- 
thing in his argument, and, imagining that the 
fittings had probably been left out by mistake, 
promised that be should have them, and saw 
that they were sent on to him. Thereupon, 
of course, the next person to see us was 
Robinson, and he insisted upon having the 
fittings which he had purchased. Needless 
to say, we were in a pretty quandary, and we 
did not get out of the matter until after the 
loss of a lawsuit. I think this incident will 
serve to show how sharp a look-out we 
auctioneers have to keep upon the wiles of 

Mr. J. Staite (of Leamington Spa). 

The incident that remains most vividly 
in my memory during all my experience as 
auctioneer is one which I should like to 
have occurred more often, for it was one in 
which I, as wielder of the hammer, decidedly 
profited. I had eight acres of land to sell, 
and there was one landowner in the district, 
whom I will call Mr. Robinson, who was 
very anxious to secure this particular piece of 
land because it adjoined his own estate. He 
had already attempted to acquire it by private 
arrangement, but the negotiations had fallen 
through. Being engaged at the funeral of 
a relative on the day of the sale, he left very 
definite instructions with his butler, who had 
only entered his service a day or two before, 
to attend the sale and buy the field at any 
price. The butler duly came to the sale and 
took up his station in the old chimney-corner, 
out of sight of everyone excepting myself. It 
so happened, however, that Mr. Robinson 
was back from the funeral earlier than he 
expected, and, going to the sale and failing 
to observe his butler, began the bidding with 
an offer of five hundred pounds. Up and up 
went the price, the landowner and his butler 
bidding against one another like Trojans, 
until at last the field was knocked down 
to the latter at fifteen hundred pounds. 
The feelings of Mr. Robinson and the 
amusement of the company may be easily 
imagined when the purchaser remarked in a 
quiet voice, " For Mr. Robinson. Here's his 
cheque for you to fill in for the deposit." 

Fortunately Mr. Robinson was anything but 
a poor man, and he had benefited to the tune 
of forty thousand pounds in the loss of his 
relative, so the few extra hundreds he paid did 
not hurt him. 

Mr. James Boy ton (of Messrs. Elliott, 
Son, and Boyton). 

One of the most remarkable things I ever 
remember in connection with an auction 
occurred on an occasion when I was offering 
a leasehold residence for sale. The property 
was boldly announced as for sale " without 
reserve," yet in spite of this, and although 
the auction-room was full of people interested 
in the property, I was unable to obtain any 
response, and was obliged to withdraw the 
property because I could not get even the 
smallest bid. To my great astonishment 
I was approached, almost directly after I , 
had announced the property as withdrawn, 
by a gentleman who asked me whether 
I would accept one thousand pounds for 
it Needless to say, I immediately closed 
with him. I doubt whether it would be 
possible to find a more curious example than 
this of reticence on the part of those who 
attend auctions. As the property was offered 
" without reserve," he could have purchased 
it had he bid even five pounds at the auction, 
provided he was not compelled to advance 
on that figure through other biddings. 

Mr. J. G. Head (of Upper Baker Street). 

Many curious incidents befall an auc- 
tioneer in the course of his career, some of 
which are amusing and some quite the 
reverse. The writer has sold a six-roomed 
house for five pounds, a horse for thirty 
shillings ; he has sold a town mansion when 
there was only one man in the room besides 
the auctioneer and his clerk ; he has knocked 
down a house to a bidder who eventually 
proved to be drunk and would not sign the 
contract, and has sold a London theatre to a 
man who wanted to borrow from him the 
whole of the purchase-money. But the most 
amusing incident he has personally witnessed 
was as follows. It is well known that an 
auctioneer must be raised above his audience, 
so that he may be able to see who is bidding. 
On one occasion when the writer was present 
the auctioneer and his clerk were sitting at a 
desk raised upon the dining-room table, as 
being the strongest piece of furniture in the 
house and most suitable for the purpose. 
The room was full cf buyers, some of whom 



pressure. Ominous cracks were heard, form- 
ing a ground bass accompaniment lo the 
" Going ! Going ! " when suddenly the 
auctioneer realized the danger, and in a few 
brief seconds he was " gone * J 

Mr, Charles Harris t F.C.I.S. (Sec, Auc- 
tioneers 1 Institute of the United Kingdom). 

The sale of which I am about to tell took 
place at an auction-room in the provinces, 
and the items in the catalogue were of 
a very heterogeneous character, comprising 
all sorts of odds and ends, from bedsteads 
to butterflies. One particular lot which 
attracted a good deal of attention was an old 
picture so covered with dirt and grime that 
it was almost impossible to see what it was 
like* This was hung upon the 
wall in a prominent position, 
but did not, apparently, find 

slowly, and it was eventually knocked down 
to a young man who had looked into the sale 
quite casually, in order to waste half an hour 
during which he had to wait for a London 
train. Taking a great fancy to the frame, 
which was of oak, blackened with age, he 
hazarded a bid of a sovereign, at which price 
it was knocked down to him without any 
competition, As he did not want the picture, 
he asked the auctioneer whether he would 
mind trying to get a bid for it, if he cut 
it out of the frame ; and being answered in 
the affirmative, he took out his knife and 
neatly cut through the canvas all round the 
edge. Imagine the astonishment of himself 
and all present when, hidden behind the 
canvas, he discovered ten Bank of England 


favour in the eyes of any of the dealers 
who were present. All of them seemed to 
think that it was of no value, and had been 
faked up by the owner in order to tempt 
somebody with a leaning towards speculation 
into purchasing an unknown quantity* No 
reserve price was placed upon this picture, 
which had been put into the sale by a local 
pawnbroker, to whom it had been pledged and 
not redeemed. In spite of every effort on the 
part of the auctioneer, who naturally did his 
best to make his audience believe that it might 
be of considerable value, bids came very 

notes for ten pounds each ! Evidently the 
picture had been used to conceal the savings 
of some previous owner who had died with- 
out disclosing the secret, and whose hard- won 
fortune thus came into the hands of a total 

Mr. Bennett Rogers (of Messrs. Rogers, 
Chapman, and Thomas). 

The incidents that impress one most in 
the course of one's auctioneering career are 



up for sale. Thus I should quote as very 
interesting a sale at Rutland Gate, where 
there were only the remains of the furniture, 
a firm having been allowed to take what they 
chose to their rooms, It was accordingly 
after the nature of a rummage sale 3 hut in 
one cupboard, which had been overlooked, 
were what a junior clerk described as 
"three silver cups," The auctioneer was 
sitting in his office when a gentleman 
drove up in a hansom cab, anxious to 
speak about these cups, for which he offered 
no less than three hundred pounds. The 
auctioneer was so much surprised that he 
thought his visitor must have some reason 
for this high bid, and he wisely determined 
not to take the first offer he received. u Oh, 
I don't think they will take that," he said, 
and with this answer the gentleman had to 
be content. An expert was then called in to 
examine the so-called cups, and he discovered 
theni to be in reality sixteenth - century 
chalices , for which he himself made an offer 
of seven hundred pounds. The three lt cups" 
were subsequently sold for one thousand one 
hundred and fifty pounds, but it was only by 
the slightest chance that they had not gone 
for a mere song + 

Mn H. M- Allom (Managing Director of 
Messrs. Debenham, Storr, and Sons, Limited), 

been childless and his wife predeceased him 
there was no direct heir, although he had two 
brothers, each with a large family* One of the 
brothers had himself married a rich woman 
and was very comfortably off, but the other, 
who had suffered from ill-health all his life, 
was in bad circumstances and had, in 
fact, been supported mainly by the kind- 
ness of his childless brother. The only 
will in existence was one dated ten years 
earlier, in which the poor brother was hardly 
mentioned, for he was then abroad. Conse- 
quently practically everything went to the 
rich relation. The poor brother, whom we 
will call Thomas, had often been told by 
William before his death that he would leave 
him well provided for, but when no will was 
found to this effect the poor man was nearly 
distraught. He was forced, therefore, to 
realize what he could by selling the furniture, 
which had been left to him. One of the 
items in the catalogue was an old oak bureau, 
worm-eaten with age, and much coveted by 
several dealers who were present. About half- 
way through the sale this was carried into the 
room, but just on the threshold the bearers 
tripped up over a piece of matting and the 
bureau was flung to the ground widi such 
violence that a part of the back was broken 
off. Hastily picking themselves up, the 

Much romance has 
been woven round the 
finding of wills. A search 
for the old will of some 
rich man, as may well 
be imagined, may be a 
very exciting affair The 
most striking 
incident I re- 
member to have 
heard of con- 
sisted in the 
finding of such 
a will, quite un- 
expectedly and 
under most dra- 
matic circum- 
stancesj during 
the progress 
of an auction. 
Some years ago 
there died at a 
large provincial 
town a man of 
con siderable 
wealth, As his 

marriage had 


was flung WflVEFSffYW'MCHIGAN 



porters examined the desk to see the extent 
of the damage, when they were amazed to 
find that behind the broken piece was a false 
back, and that in the space between the two 
was a document Amid intense excitement 
— for the dead man's affairs had been much 
discussed locally and everybody knew the 
circumstances — the document was handed 
to the poor brother, who, opening it with 
trembling hands, announced with a cry that 
it was the missing will. By this will, I may 
add, he benefited to the extent of many 
thousands of pounds, which might never 
have been his but for the lucky accident 
which I have described, 

Mr. Henry Stevens (of the well-known 
firm of that name). 

Of course, I have met with a good many 
interesting experiences during my career as 
an auctioneer, 
but the most 
striking of them 
all occurred, I 
think, in con- 
nection with a 
Great Auk's egg. 
The incident 
illustrates very 
clearly how un- 
articles of excep- 
tional value are 
brought to life, 
and the great 
danger they 
sometimes run 
of being con- 
signed to 
oblivion* Some 
years ago a young 
fellow in Kent 
rode over to an 
obscure furniture 
sale at a coun- 
try village in the 
hope of securing 
a bargain to help 
in furnishing a 
home in view of 
his intended 
marriage. And 
a bargain he did 
get, though not 
of the kind he 
thought of One 
of the lots put 

up for sale was a basket full of shells, 
eggs, and other oddments which had 
attracted the attention of an old lady who 
happened to be present. Just as they were 
on the point of being knocked down to her, 
the young man was struck with the appear- 
ance of two large eggs in the basket, and 
thinking he might as well have them as 
curiosities he started to bid, with the result 
that the lot was knocked down to him for 
thirty-six shillings. Upon examining the eggs 
it occurred to him that he might be able to 
make a slight profit on their sale. He 
accordingly wrapped them up in a hand- 
kerchief, tied this to his bicycle, and, having 
a free afternoon, rode up to London there 
and then and brought them to me* As 
soon as I had washed off the grime which 
covered them I discovered that they were 
eggs of no less a bird than the Great 
Auk, and as the result 
irf their sale a few weeks 
later I handed the astute 
young bargain -hunter a 
cheque for four hundred 
pounds, which was suf- 
ficient to set him up in 
business. If it had not 
been for his cute- 
ness, those eggs 
would most 
likelv have served 
to decorate the 
old lady's cot- 
tag e T where they 
would probably 
have remained, 
along with a 
number of quite 
valueless shells^ 
until they were 
broken to 
pieces and con- 
signed to the 
Another incident 
of which I have 
a very vivid 
recollection oc- 
curred in con- 
nection with the 
sale of some 
valuable shells. 
The bidding for 
one large shell 
in particular was 
much more 

5 brisk than I had 

FMICHKi&Hcipated, but 


to atoms." LiF'llvEFolTr 



the reason for this became apparent when 
at last it was knocked down to a gentle- 
man m a very excited condition, who, 
directly it was handed to him, flung it upon 
the ground and trampled it to atoms, 
at the same time shouting out in a 
loud voice that, now that one was de- 
stroyed, he possessed the only specimen in 
the world ! 

Mr. C, H. ELSOM (of High Wycombe), 

I have had one or two experiences myself 
of an amusing nature, but I think a better 
story will result, perhaps, if I relate the 
adventure of another auctioneer of my 
acquaintance. On a certain occasion he 
had to conduct the sale of a menagerie, 
and fearing lest, in his efforts to show some 

well for some time, and he succeeded in 
disposing of camels, zebras, monkeys, and so 
on, until he reached the bonnt-boucke of the 
catalogue, "A cage of five very fine performing 
African lions," The company invited the 
auctioneer to give a performance, but not 
feeling equal to the occasion he remained 
where he was and allowed the proprietor of 
the show to take his place. No sooner 
was the man inside the cage, however, than 
the lions, enraged by the crowd and noise, 
began to roar ominously. The showman 
immediately made for the door again, but was 
foolish enough to turn his back on the lions, 
one of which sprang after him and was out of 
the cage before he could close the aperture. 
There was at once a wild stampede. The 
audience climbed hurriedly to the tops of 


of the good points of the animals, the owner 
might enter their cages — a course which 
might give the beasts an opportunity to 
escape— he armed himself with a revolver 
and pocket dagger, and chose as his rostrum 
the driver's seat of a high show -wagon, 
feeling he would there be fairly safe if any 
of the lots joined the company. ( ^,^eiit 

carriages, roofs of sheds, lamp-posts, telegraph 
poles, and every available place of compara- 
tive safety. Fortunately, the showman kept 
his head and bolted the cage door after the 
escape of the Hon, which, itself much 
frightened, took refuge under the van where 
the auctioneer was perched, and was speedily 
roped up. Original from 



At the baccarat tables at Aix-les- Bains Julius Ricardo saw a girl talking to the holder of the bank, in 
whom he recognized with surprise an English acquaintance named Harry Wethermill. The girl, Celia 
Harland, he remembered having seen as a medium at a spiritualistic performance in an English town, 
Wethermill and Celia, after a run of bad luck, left the tables together, meeting at the entrance Mme. 
Dauvray, famous in Aix for her jewels, to whom Celia acted as companion. Two days later Wethermill 
burst into Ricardo's dressing-room with a morning paper announcing the murder of Mme. Dauvray at her 
residence, the Villa Rose* Her maid, Helene Vauquier, had been found in bed chloroformed, while Celia had 
disappeared. It had also been ascertained that Mme. Dauvray's motor-car was missing. 

Hanaud, one of the best French detectives, enjoying a holiday at Aix, was known slightly to both Ricardo 
and Wethermill, and the latter persuaded his friend to seek the help of the detective. The three thereupon 
went down to the Villa Rose, accompanied by Perrichet, the sergentcU-ville who discovered the crime. 

a young, 
a red, fair 

perrichet's storv. 
thick-set man, with 
face, and a moustache and 
hair so pale in colour that they 
were almost silver. He came 
into the room with an air 
of importance. 

" Aha ! " said Hanaud, with a malicious 
smile. "You went to bed late last night, 
my friend. Yet you were up early enough to 
read the newspaper. Well, I am to have the 
honour of being associated with you in this 

Perrichet twirled his cap awkwardly and 

"Monsieur is pleased to laugh at me," he 

said. " But it was not I who called myself 

intelligent. Though indeed I would like to be 

so, for the good God knows I do n<ft look it." 

Hanaud clapped him on the shoulder. 

"Then congratulate yourself! It is a 

great advantage to be intelligent and not to 

look it. We shall get on famously. Come!" 

The four men descended the stairs, and as 

they walked towards the villa Perrichet related, 

concisely and clearly, his experience of the 


" I passed the gate of the villa about half- 
past nine," he said. " The gate was closed. 
Above the wall and bushes of the garden I 
saw a bright light in the room upon the first 
floor which faces the road at the south-western 
comer of the villa. The lower windows I 
could not see. More than an hour afterwards 

Copyright, 1909, by 
Vol. xxxix.— 6* 

I came back, and as I passed the villa again 
I noticed that there was now no light in the 
room upon the first floor, but that the gate 
was open. 1 thereupon went into the garden, 
and, pulling the gate, let it swing to and 
latch. But it occurred to me as I did so 
that there might be visitors at the villa who 
had not yet left, and for whom the gate had 
been set open. I accordingly followed the 
drive which winds round to the front door. 
The front door is not on the side of the 
villa which faces the road, but at the back. 
When I came to the open space where the 
carriages turn, I saw that the house was in 
complete darkness. There were wooden 
latticed doors to the long windows on the 
ground floor, and these were closed. I tried 
one to make certain, and found the fastenings 
secure. The other windows upon that floor 
were shuttered. No light gleamed anywhere. 
I then left the garden, closing the gate 
behind me. I heard a clock strike the hour a 
few minutes afterwards, so that I can be sure 
of the time. It was now eleven o'clock. I 
came round a third time an hour after, and 
to my astonishment I found the gate once 
more open. I had left it closed and the house 
shut up and dark. Now it stood open ! I 
looked up to the windows and I saw that in 
a room on the second floor, close beneath 
the roof, a light was burning brightly. That 
room had been dark an hour before. I 
stood and watched the light for a few 
minutes, thinking that I should see it suddenly 
go out. But it die not ; it burned quite 

f^tar^iWrtH^RH* °P ened and 

A. E. W. Mason. 



reopened aroused my suspicions. I went 
again into the garden, but this time with 
greater caution. It was a clear night, and, 
although there was no moon, I could see 
without the aid of my lantern. When I 
came round to the front door I saw that the 
shutters of one of the ground-floor windows 
were swung back, and that the inside glass 
window which descended to the ground 
stood open. The interior of the room 
gaped black I crept up to the window and 
flashed my lantern into the room- The 
window, however, was in a recess which opened 
into the room through an arch, at each side 
of which curtains were draped. The curtains 
were not closed, but between them I could 
see nothing but a strip of the room. I went 
carefully in> taking heed not to walk on the 
patch of grass before the window. The light 

that two heavy showers fell last evening 
between six and eight." 

"Yes,' J said Hanaud, nodding his approval. 

" She was quite dead. Her face was 
terribly swollen and black, and a piece of 
thin strong cord was knotted so tightly about 
her neck that at first I did not see it, for 
Mme. Dauvray was stout," 

" Then what did you do ? " asked Hanaud. 

" I went to the telephone which was in the 
hall and rang up the police. Then 1 crept 
upstairs very cautiously, trying the doors. I 
came upon no one until I reached the room 
under the roof where the light was burning. 
There I found H^lfene Vauquier, the maid, 
in bed, snoring in a terrible fashion." 

The four men turned a bend in the road, 
A few paces away a knot of people stood 
before a gate which a s€rgeni-de-vine guarded. 



of my lantern showed me a chair overturned 
upon the floor, and to my right, below the 
middle one of the three windows in the 
right-hand side wall, a woman lying huddled 
upon the floor, It was Mme, Dauvray* She 
was dressed, There was a little mud upon her 
shoes, as though she had walked after the 
rain had ceased. Monsieur will remember 

" But here we are at the villa," said Hanaud, 
They all looked up, and from a window at 

the corner upon the first floor a man looked 

out and drew in his head. 

"That is M. Besnard, the Commissaire of 

our police in Aix," said Pernchet. 



room in which you saw the bright light at 
half-past nine on your first round ? " 

" Yes, m'sieur," said Perrichet. " That is 
the window." 

They stopped at the gate. Perrichet spoke 
to the sergent-de-villey who at once held the 
gate open. The party passed into the garden 
of the villa. 



The drive curved between trees and high 
bushes towards the back of the house, and as 
the party advanced along it a small, trim, 
soldier-like man, with a pointed beard and a 
narrow face, came to meet them. It was the 
man who had looked out from the window, 
Louis Besnard, the Commissaire of Police. 

" You are coming, then, to help us, 
M. Hanaud ! " he cried, extending his hands. 
"You will find nothing amongst us but a 
desire to carry out your suggestions. All we 
wish is that the murderers should be dis- 
covered. Mon Dieu, what a crime ! And so 
young a girl to be involved in it ! But what 
will you ? " 

" So you have already made your mind up 
on that point ! " said Hanaud, sharply. 

The Commissaire shrugged his shoulders. 

" Monsieur shall judge for himself," he 

Half-way between the gate and the villa a 
second carriage-road struck off to the left, 
and at the entrance to it stood a young, stout 
man in black leggings. 

11 The chauffeur ? " asked Hanaud. " I will 
speak to him." 

The Commissaire called the chauffeur for- 

11 Servettaz," he said, " you will answer any 
questions which monsieur may put to you." 

" Certainly, M. le Commissaire," said the 
chauffeur. His manner was serious, but he 
answered readily. There was no sign of fear 
upon his face. 

" How long have you been with Mme. 
Dauvray ? " Hanaud asked. 

" Four months, monsieur. I drove her to 
Aix from Paris." 

"And since your parents live at Chamb^ry 
you wished to seize the opportunity of spend- 
ing a day with them ? " 

"Yes, monsieur." 

" When did you ask for permission ? " 

"On Saturday, monsieur." 

" Did you ask particularly that you should 
have yesterday, the Tuesday ? " 

" No, monsieur ; I asked only for a day when- 
ever it should be convenient to madame." 

"Quite so," said Hanaud. "Now, when 
did Mme. Dauvray tell you that you might 
have Tuesday ? " 

Servettaz hesitated. His face became 
troubled. When he spoke, he spoke re- 

" It was not Mme. Dauvray, monsieur, 
who told me that I might go on Tuesday," 
he said. 

"Not Mme. Dauvray! Who was it, 
then ? " Hanaud asked, sharply. 

Servettaz glanced from one to another of 
the grave faces which confronted him. 

"It was Mile. C#ie," he said, "who 
told me." 

"Oh!" said Hanaud, slowly. "It was 
Mile. C<51ie. When did she tell you ? " 

"On Monday morning, monsieur. I was 
cleaning the car. She came to the garage 
with some flowers in her hand which she 
had been cutting in the garden, and she 
said : * I was right, Alphonse. Madame has 
a kind heart. You can go to-morrow by the 
train which leaves Aix at one-fifty-two and 
arrives at Chamb^ry at nine minutes after 
two.' " 

Hanaud started. 

"Were those her words?" He lifted a 
warning finger and said, gravely, "Be very 
careful, Servettaz." 

"Those were her words, monsieur." 

" ' I was right, Alphonse. Madame has a 
kind heart?" 

" Yes, monsieur." 

" Then Mile. C£lie had spoken to you 
before about this visit of yours to Chamb^ry," 
said Hanaud, with his eyes fixed steadily 
upon the chauffeur's face. The distress upon 
Servettaz's face increased. Suddenly Hanaud's 
voice rang sharply. " You hes itate. Speak 
the truth, Servettaz ! " 

" Monsieur, I am speaking the truth," said 
the chauffeur. " It is true I hesitate ... I 
have heard this morning what people are 
saying ... I do not know what to think. 
Mile. C£lie was always kind and thoughtful 
for me . . . But it is true," and with a kind 
of desperation he went on. " Yes, it is true 
that it was Mile. C£lie who first suggested to 
me on Saturday that I should ask for a day 
to go to Cham Wry." 

To Mr. Ricardo the words were startling. 
He glanced with pity towards Wethermill. 
Wethermill, however, had made up his mind. 
He stood with a dogged look upon his face, 
his chin thrust forward, his eyes upon the 
chauffeur. Besnard, the Commissaire, had 
made j p his mind, too. Hs merely shrugged 
his shoulders. Hanaud stepped forward 



and laid his hand gently on the chauffeur's 

" Come, my friend ! " he said. " Let us 
hear exactly how this happened ! " 

" Mile. C^lie," said Servettaz, with genuine 

They followed the road between the bushes 
until a turn showed them the garage with its 
doors open. 

"The doors were found unlocked?" 

"Just as you see them/ 


compunction in his voice, " came to the 
garage on Saturday morning and ordered the 
car for the afternoon. She stayed and talked 
to me for a little while, as she often did. 
She said that she had been told that my 
parents lived at Chambery, and since I was 
so near I ought to ask for a holiday. For it 
would not be kind if I did not go and see 

14 That was all ? ;T 

" Yes, monsieur." 

11 Very well," and the detective resumed 
at once his brisk voice and alert manner. 
He seemed to dismiss Servettaz J s admission 
from his mind. Ricardo had the impression 
of a man tying up an important document 
which he has done with, and putting it away 
ticketed in some pigeon-hole in his desk. 
14 Let us see the garage I w 

Hanaud nodded He spoke again to 
Servettaz. " What did you do with the key 
on Tuesday ? " 

( 'I gave it to H^lfene Vauquier, monsieur, 
after I had locked up the garage. And she 
hung it on a nail in the kitchen." 

" 1 see," said Hanaud. " So anyone could 
easily have found it last night? " 

"Yes, monsieur. If one knew where to 
look for it* 

At the back of the garage some tins of 
petrol stood against the brick wall. 

"Was any petrol taken?" asked Hanaud. 

"Yes, monsieur; there was very little 
petrol in the car when I went away* More 
was taken, but it was taken from the 
middle tinitrtfWsfeSrriAnd he touched the 
tin ,t-l^ IV ER^I TYD FJ-^I C H IG A N ^ , , w . 

**I see, said Hanaud, and he raised his 



eyebrows thoughtfully. The Commissaire 
moved with impatience. 

" From the middle or from the end — what 
does it matter?" he exclaimed. "The petrol 
was taken." 

Hanaud, however, did not dismiss the 
point so lightly. 

" Then if you had had no reason to look," 
he said, "it might have been some while before 
you found out that the petrol had been taken?" 

11 Indeed, yes," said Servettaz. " I might 
even have forgotten that I had not used it 

" Quite so," said Hanaud, and he turned 
to Besnard. "I think that may be 
important. I do not know," he said 

" But since the car is gone," cried Besnard, 
"how could the chauffeur not look imme- 
diately at his tins?" 

The question had occurred to Ricardo, 
and he wondered in what way Hanaud meant 
to answer it Hanaud, however, did not 
mean to answer it He took no notice of 
it at all. He put it aside with a superb 
indifference to the opinion which his com- 
panions might form of him. 

11 It was a powerful car ? " he asked. 

"A sixty - horse - power Daimler," said 

Hanaud turned to the Commissaire 

" You have the number and description, I 
suppose? It will be as well to advertise for it 
It may have been seen ; it must be somewhere. * 

The Commissaire replied that the descrip- 
tion had already been printed, and Hanaud, 
with a nod of approval, examined the ground. 
In front of the garage there was a small stone 
courtyard, but on its surface there was no 
trace of a footstep. 

" Yet the gravel was wet," he said, shaking 
his head. " The man who fetched that car 
fetched it carefully." • 

He turned and walked back with his eyes 
upon the ground. Then he ran to the grass 
border between the gravel and the bushes. 

"Look !" he said to VVethermill ; "a foot 
has pressed the blades of grass down here, 
but very lightly — yes, and there again. Some- 
one ran along the border here on his toes. 
Yes, he was very careful." 

They turned again into the main drive 
and, following it for a few yards, came 
suddenly upon a space in front of the villa. 
It was a small toy pleasure-house, looking on 
to a green lawn gay with flower-beds. It was 
built of yellow stone and was almost square 
in shape. A couple of ornate pillars flanked 
the door, and a gable roof, topped by a gilt 
vane, surmounted it To Ricardo it seemed 

impossible that so sordid and sinister a 
tragedy had taken place within its walls 
during the last twelve hours. It glistened so 
gaudily in the blaze of sunlight Here and 
there the green outer shutters were closed; 
here and there the windows stood open to let 
in the air and light Upon each side of the 
door there was a window lighting the hall, 
which was large; beyond those windows again, 
on each side, there were glass doors opening 
to the ground and protected by the ordinary 
green latticed doors of wood, which now stood 
hooked back against the wall. These glass 
doors opened into rooms oblong in shape, 
which ran through towards the back of the 
house and were lighted in addition by side 
windows. The room upon the extreme left, 
as the party faced the villa, was the dining- 
room, with the kitchen at the back ; the 
room on the right was the salon in which the 
murder had been committed. In front of 
the glass door to this room a strip of what had 
once been grass stretched to the gravel drive. 
But the grass had been worn away by constant 
use, and the black mould showed through. 
This strip was about three yards wide, and as 
they approached they saw, even at a distance, 
that since the rain of last night it had been 
trampled down. 

" We will go round the house first," said 
Hanaud, and he turned along the side of the 
villa and walked in the direction of the road. 
There were four windows just above his head, 
of which three lighted the salon, and the 
fourth a small writing-room behind it. Under 
these windows there was no disturbance of 
the ground, and a careful investigation showed 
conclusively that the only entrance used had 
been the glass doors of the salon facing the 
drive. To that spot, then, they returned. 
There were three sets of footmarks upon the 
soil. One set ran in a distinct curve from 
the drive to the side of the door, and did not 
cross the others. 

" Those," said Hanaud, " are the footsteps 
of my intelligent friend, Perrichet, who was 
careful not to disturb the ground." 

Perrichet beamed all over his rosy face, 
and Besnard nodded at him with con- 
descending approval. 

"But I wish, M. le Commissaire" — and 
Hanaud pointed to a blur of marks — "that 
your other officers had been as intelligent 
\joc\l ! These run from the glass door to the 
drive, and, for all the use they are to us, a 
harrow might have been dragged across 

Besnard drew himself up. 

" Noi one of my officers has entered the 



room by way of this door. The strictest 
orders were given and obeyed. The ground 
as you see it is the ground as it was at twelve 
o'clock last night." 

Hanaud's face grew thoughtful. 

" Is that so ? " he said, and he stooped to 
examine the second Set of marks. They 
were at the right-hand side of the door. " A 
woman and a man," he said. " But they are 
mere hints rather than prints. One might 
almost think— — ' He rose up without 
finishing his sentence, and he turned to the 
third set and a look of satisfaction gleamed 
upon his face. "Ah, here is something more 
interesting," he said. 

There were just three impressions ; and, 
whereas the blurred marks were at the side, 
these three pointed straight from the middle 
of the glass doors to the drive. They 
were quite clearly defined, and all three were 
the impressions made by a woman's small, 
arched, high-heeled shoe. The position of 
the marks was at first sight a little peculiar. 
There was one a good yard from the window, 
the impression of the right foot, and the 
pressure of the sole of the shoe was more 
marked than that of the heel. The second, 
the impression of the left foot, was not quite 
so far from the first as the first was from the 
window, and here again the heel was the 
more lightly defined. But there was this 
difference— the mark of the toe, which was 
pointed in the first instance, was in this 
broader and a trifle blurred. Close beside it 
the right foot was again visible ; only now 
the narrow heel was more clearly defined 
than the ball of the foot. It had, indeed, 
sunk half an inch into the ground. 

Hanaud looked at the marks thoughtfully. 
Then he turned to the Commissaire. 

"Are there any shoes in the house which 
fit those marks ? " 

" Yes. We have tried the shoes of all the 
women— C£lie Harland, the maid, and even 
Mme. Dauvray. The only ones which fit 
at all are those taken from C£lie Harland's 
bedroom." He called to an officer standing 
in the drive, and a pair of grey sufede shoes 
were brought to him from the hall. 

" See, M. Hanaud, it is a pretty little 
foot which made those clear impressions," 
he said with a smile ; " a foot arched and 
slender. Mme. Dauvray's foot is short and 
square, the maid's broad and flat. Neither 
Mme. Dauvray^ nor H£l£ne Vauquier 
could have worn these shoes. They were 
lying, one here, one there, upon the floor 
of Celie Harland's room, as though she 
had kicked them off in a hurry. They 

are almost new, you see. They have been 
worn once, perhaps, no more, and they fit 
with absolute precision into those footmarks, 
except just at the toe of that second one." 

Hanaud took the shoes and, kneeling 
down, placed them one after the other over 
the impressions. To Ricardo it was extra- 
ordinary how exactly they covered up the 
marks and filled the indentations. 

"I should say," said the Commissaire, 
" that C£lie Harland went away wearing a 
new pair of skoes made on the very same 
last as those." 

As those she had left carelessly lying on 
the floor of her room for the first person to 
notice, thought Ricardo. It seemed as if the 
girl had gone out of her way to make the 
weight of evidence against her as heavy as 
possible. Yet, after all, it was just through 
inattention to the small details, so insigni- 
ficant at the red moment of crime, so terribly 
instructive the next day, that guilt was 
generally brought home. 

Hanaud rose to his feet and handed the 
shoes back to the officer. He took a measure 
from his pocket and measured the ground 
between the window and the first footstep and 
between the first footstep and the other two. 

"How tall is Mile. Cdlie?" he asked, and 
he addressed the question to Wethermill. It 
struck Ricardo as one of the strangest details 
in all this strange affair that the detective 
should ask with confidence for information 
which might help to bring Celia Harland to 
the guillotine from the man who had staked 
his happiness upon her innocence. 

" About five feet seven," he answered. 

Hanaud replaced his measure in his 
pocket He turned with a grave face to 

" I warned you fairly, didn't I ? " he said. 

WethermilPs white face twitched. 

" Yes," he said. " I am not afraid," but 
there was more of anxiety in his voice than 
there had been before. 

Hanaud pointed solemnly to the ground. 

" Read the story those footprints write 
in the mould there. A young and active 
girl of about Mile. C^lie's height, and 
wearing a new pair of Mile. Celie's shoes, 
springs from that room where the murder 
was committed, where the body of the mur- 
dered woman lies. She is running. She is 
wearing a long gown. At the second step 
the hem of the gown catches beneath the 
point of her shoe. She stumbles. To save 
herself from falling she brings up the other 
foot sharply and stamps the heel down into 
the ground. She recovers her balance. She 




steps on to the drive. It is true the 
gravel here is hard and takes no mark, 
but you will see that some of the mould 
which has clung to her shoes has dropped 
off. She mounts into the motor-car with 
the man and the other woman and 
drives off— some time between eleven and 

" Between eleven and twelve ? Is that 
sure?" asked Besnard, 

"Certainly," replied Hanaud. "The gate 
is open at eleven, and Perrichet closes it. 
It is open again at twelve, Therefore the 
murderers had not gone before eleven. No ; 
the gate was open for them to go, but they 
had not gone, Else why should the gate 
again be open at midnight ? " 

Besnard nodded in assent, and suddenly 
Perrichet started forward, with his eyes full 
of horror. 

"Then, when I first closed the gate/ 1 he 
cried, "and came into the garden and up to 
the house they were here — in that room ? 
Oh, my God!" He stared at the window, 
with his mouth open. 

" I am afraid, my friend, that is so/' said 
Hanaud, gravely, 

"But I knocked upon the wooden door t I 
tried the bolts, and they were within — in the 
darkness within, not three yards from me," 
He stood transfixed. 

" That we shall see," said Hanaud 

He stepped in Perrichet's footsteps to the 
sill of the room. He examined the green 
wooden doors which opened outwards, and 
the glass doors which opened inwards, taking 
a magnifysng-glass from his pocket. He called 
Besnard to his side, 

" See ! ,J he said, pointing to the woodwork. 

Then he stooped down to the sill, where 
some traces of steps were visible. 

" Rubber shoes," he said, and so stepped 
into the room, followed by Wethermill and 
the others. They found themselves in a small 
recess which was panelled with wood painted 
white, and here and there delicately carved 
with festoons of flowers, The recess ended 

in af|ffl¥toipp^^ 

and on the inner side of the arch thick 



curtains of pink silk were hung. These were 
drawn back carelessly, and through the open- 
ing between them the party looked down the 
length of the room beyond. They passed 




Julius Ricardo pushed aside the curtains 
with a thrill of excitement. He found him- 
self standing within a small oblong room 
which was prettily, even daintily, furnished. 
On his left, close by the recess, was a small 
fireplace with the ashes of a burnt-out fire in 
the grate. Beyond the grate a long settee 
covered in pink damask, with a crumpled 
cushion at each end, stood a foot or two away 
from the wall, and beyond the settee the 
door of the room opened into the hall. At 
the end a long mirror was let into the panel- 
ling, and a writing-table stood by the mirror. 
On the right were the three windows, and 
between the two nearest to Mr. Ricardo was 
the switch of the electric light A chandelier 
hung from the ceiling, an electric lamp stood 
upon the writing-table, a couple of electric 
candles on the mantelshelf. A round satin- 
wood table stood under the windows, with 
three chairs about it, of which one was over- 
turned, one was placed with its back to the 
electric switch, and the third on the opposite 
side facing it 

Ricardo could hardly believe that he stood 
actually upon the spot where within twelve 
hours a cruel and sinister tragedy had taken 
place. There was so little disorder. The 
three windows on his right showed him the 
blue sunlit sky and a glimpse of flowers and 
trees; behind him the glass doors stood open 
to the lawn, where birds piped cheerfully 
and the trees murmured of summer. But he 
saw Hanaud stepping quickly, and with an 
extraordinary lightness of step for so big a 
man, from place to place, obviously 
engrossed, obviously reading here and there 
some detail, some custom of the inhabitants 
of that room. 

Ricardo leaned against the wall. 

" Now, what has this room to say to me ? " 
he asked aloud, with some importance. 
Nobody paid the slightest attention to his 
question, and it was just as well. For the 
room had very little information to give him. 
He ran his eye over the white Louis Seize 
furniture, the white panels of the wall, 
the polished floor, the pink curtains. Even 
the delicate tracery of the ceiling did not 
escape his scrutiny. Yet he saw nothing 
likely to help him but an overturned chair 
and a couple of crushed cushions on a 

settee. It was very annoying, all the more 
annoying because M. Hanaud was so un- 
commonly busy. Hanaud looked carefully 
at the long settee and the crumpled cushions, 
and he took out his measure and measured 
the distance between the cushion at one end 
and the cushion at the other. He examined 
the table, he measured the distance between 
the chairs. He came to the fireplace and 
raked in the ashes of the burnt -out fire. 
But Ricardo noticed a singular thing. 
In the midst of his search Hanaud's eyes 
were always straying back to the settee, and 
always with a look of extreme perplexity, as 
if he read there something, definitely some- 
thing, but something which he could not 
explain. Finally he went back to it; he 
drew it farther away from the wall, and 
suddenly with a little cry he stooped and 
went down on his knees. When he rose he 
was holding some torn fragments of paper in 
his hand. He went over to the writing-table 
and opened the blotting-book. Where it fell 
open there were some sheets of note-paper, 
and one sheet of which half had been torn 
off. He compared the pieces which he held 
with that torn sheet and seemed satisfied. 

There was a rack for note-paper upon the 
table, and from it he took a stiff card. 

" Get me some gum or paste, and quickly," 
he said. His voice had become brusque, the 
politeness had gone from his address. He 
carried the card and the fragments of paper 
to the table. There he sat down and, with 
infinite patience, gummed the fragments on 
to the card, fitting them together like the 
pieces of a Chinese puzzle. 

The others over his shoulders could see 
spaced words, written in pencil, taking shape 
as a sentence upon the card. Hanaud turned 
abruptly in his seat towards Wethermill. 

"You have, no doubt, a letter written by 
Mile. C^lie?" 

Wethermill took his letter case from his 
pocket and a letter out of the case.. He 
hesitated for a moment as he glanced over 
what was written. The four sheets were 
covered. He folded back the letter, so that 
only the two inner sheets were visible, and 
handed it to Hanaud. Hanaud compared it 
with the handwriting upon the card. 

t; Look ! " he said at length, and the three 
men gathered behind him. On the card 
the gummed fragments of paper revealed a 
sentence : — 

" Je ne sais pas. n 

"'I do not know/" said Ricardo; "now 
this is very important" Beside the card 
Celia s letter to Wethermill was laid. 




"What do you think ?" asked Hanaud- 

Besnard, the Commissaire of Police, bent 
over HanaucTs shoulder. 

"There are strong resemblances," he said, 

Ricardo was on the look-out for deep 
mysteries. Resemblanqes were not enough 
for him + They were inadequate to the artistic 
need of the situation. 

"Both were written by the same hand," 

he said, definitely. "Only in the sentence 
written upon the card the handwriting is 
carefully disguised," 

" Ah I JJ said the Commissaire, bending for- 
ward again. "Here is an idea! Yes, yes; 
there are strong differences/' 

Ricardo looked triumphant. 

,( Yes, there are differences," said Hanaud. 
"Look how long the up stroke of the *p J is, 
how k l-AWi^&BSlT TSfetF ^dwH^u^^fenly this 's 1 



straggles off as though some emotion made 
the hand shake. Yet this," and touching the 
letter he smiled ruefully, "this is where the 
emotion should have affected the pen." He 
looked up to Wethermill's face and then said, 
quietly : — 

" You have given us no opinion, monsieur. 
Yet your opinion should be the most valuable 
of all. Were these two papers written by the 
same hand ? " 

" 1 do not know," answered Wethermill. 

" And I, too," cried Hanaud, in a sudden 
exasperation, " je ne sais pas. I do not know. 
It may be her hand carelessly counterfeited. 
It may be her hand disguised- It may be 
simply that she wrote in a hurry with her 
gloves on." 

" It may have been written some time 
ago," said Mr. Ricardo, encouraged by his 
success to another suggestion. 

" No ; that is the one thing it could not 
have been," said Hanaud. " Look round the 
room. Was there ever a room better tended? 
Find me a little pile of dust in any one corner 
if you can ! It is all as clean as a plate. 
Every morning, except this one morning, 
this room has been swept and polished. The 
paper was written and torn up yesterday." 

He closed the card in an envelope as he 
spoke, and placed it in his pocket. Then 
he rose and crossed again to the settee. 
He stood at the side of it, with his hands 
clutching the lapels of his coat and his face 
gravely troubled. After a few moments of 
silence for himself, of suspense for all the 
others who watched him, he stooped suddenly. 
Slowly, and with extraordinary care, he 
pushed his hands under the head cushion 
and lifted it up gently, so that the indenta- 
tions of its surface might not be disarranged. 
He carried it over to the light of the open 
window. The cushion was covered with silk, 
and as he held it to the sunlight all could see 
a small brown stain. 

Hanaud took his magnify ing-glass from his 
pocket and bent his head over the cushion. 
But at that moment, careful though he had 
been, the down swelled up within the cushion, 
the folds and indentations disappeared, the 
silk covering was stretched smooth. 

" It does not matter now," said Hanaud, 
as he replaced the glass in his pocket. He 
carried that cushion back and replaced it. 
Then he took the other which lay at the foot 
of the settee, and carried it in its turn to the 
window. This was indented too, and ridged 
up, and just at the marks the nap of the silk 
was worn, and there was a slit where it had 
been cut. The perplexity upon Hanaud's face 

greatly increased. He stood with the cushion 
in his hands, no longer looking at it, but look- 
ing out through the doors at the footsteps so 
clearly defined — the footsteps of a girl who 
had run from this room and sprung into a 
motor-car and driven away. He shook his 
head, and, carrying back the cushion, laid it 
carefully down. Then he stood erect, gazed 
about the room as though even yet he might 
force its secret out from its silence, and 
cried : — 

"There is something here, gentlemen, 
which I do not understand." 

Mr. Ricardo heard someone beside him 
draw a deep breath, and turned. Wethermill 
stood at his elbow. A faint colour had come 
back to his cheeks, his eyes were fixed 
intently upon Hanaud's face. 

" What do you think ? " he asked, and 
Hanaud replied, brusquely : — 

" It is not my business to hold opinions, 
monsieur ; my business is to make sure." 

There was one point, and only one, of 
which he had made everyone in that room 
sure. He had started confident. Here was 
a sordid crime, easily understood. But in 
that room he had read something which had 
troubled him, which had raised the sordid 
crime on to some higher and perplexing level. 

What was that something? Ricardo asked 
himself. He looked once more about the 
room. He did not find his answer, but he 
caught sight of an ornament upon the wall 
which drove the question from his mind. 
The ornament, if so it could be called, was a 
painted tambourine with a bunch of bright 
ribbons tied to the rim ; and it was hung 
upon the wall between the settee and the fire- 
place at about the height of a man's head. 
Of course, it might be no more than it seemed 
to be— a rather gaudy and vulgar toy, such 
as a woman like Mme. Dauvray would be 
very likely to choose in order to dress her 
walls. But it swept Ricardo's thoughts back 
of a sudden to the concert-hall at Leamington 
and the apparatus of a spiritualistic show. 
After all, he reflected triumphantly, Hanaud 
had not noticed everything, and as he made 
the reflection Hanaud's voice broke in to 
corroborate him. 

" Let us go upstairs," he said. " We will 
first see the room of Mile. C£lie. Then we 
will visit the maid, H£l£ne Vauquier." 

The four men, followed by Perrichet, passed 
out by the door into the hall and mounted 
the stairs. Celia's rgom was in the south- 
west angle of the villa, a bright and airy room, 
of which one window overlooked the road, 
and two others, between which stood the 



dressing-table, the garden. Behind the room 
a door led into a little white-tiled bathroom. 
Some towels were tumbled upon the floor 
beside the bath. In the bedroom a dark 
grey frock of tussore and a petticoat were 
flung carelessly upon the bed ; a big grey hat 
of Ottoman silk was lying upon a chest of 
drawers in the recess of a window; and upon 
a chair a little pile of fine linen and a pair of 
grey silk stockings, which matched in shade 
the grey sufede shoes, were tossed in a heap. 

" It was here that you saw the light at half- 
past nine?" Hanaud said, turning to Perrichet 

11 Yes, monsieur," replied Perrichet. 

"We may assume, then, that Mile. C£lie 
was changing her dress at that time." 

Besnard was looking about him, opening 
a drawer here, a wardrobe there. 

" Mile. C£lie," he said, with a laugh, " was 
a particular young lady, and fond of her fine 
clothes, if one may judge from the room and 
the order of the cupboards. She must have 
changed her dress last night in an unusual 

There was about the whole room a certain 
daintiness, almost, it seemed to Mr. Ricardo, 
a fragrance, as though the girl had impressed 
something of her own delicate self upon it 
Wethermill stood upon the threshold watch- 
ing with a sullen face the violation of this 
chamber by the officers of the police. 

No such feelings, however, troubled 
Hanaud. He went over to the dressing- 
table and opened a few small leather cases 
which held Celia's ornaments. In one or 
two of them a trinket was visible ; others 
were empty. One of these latter Hanaud 
held open in his hand, and for so long that 
Besnard moved impatiently. 

" You see it is empty, monsieur," he said, 
and suddenly Wethermill moved forward into 
the room. 

" Yes, I see that," said Hanaud, dryly. 

It was a case made to hold a couple of 
long ear-drops — those diamond ear-drops, 
doubtless, which Mr. Ricardo had seen 
twinkling in the garden. 

" Will monsieur let me see ? " asked 
Wethermill, and he took the case in his 
hands. "Yes," he said. "Mile. C^lie's 
ear-drops," and he handed the case back 
with a thoughtful air. 

It was the first time he had taken a 

definite part in the investigation. To Ricardo 

the reason was clear. Harry Wethermill 

.had himself given those ear-drops to Celia. 

Hanaud replaced the case and turned round. 

" There is nothing more for us to see here," 
he said " I suppose that no one has been 

allowed to enter the room ? " And he 
opened the door. 

" No one except Hdlfene Vauquier," replied 
the Commissaire. 

Ricardo felt indignant at so obvious a piece 
of carelessness. Even Wethermill looked sur- 
prised. Hanaud merely shut the door again. 

"Oho, the maid!" he said. "Then she 
has recovered ! " 

" She is still weak," said the Commissaire. 
" But I thought it was necessary that we 
should obtain a description of what C£lie 
Harland wore when she left the house, so I 
brought H^lfcne Vauquier here myself just 
before you came. She looked through the 
girl's wardrobe to see what was missing." 

" Was she alone in the room ? " 

"Not for a moment," said M. Besnard, 
haughtily. " Really, monsieur, we are not so 
ignorant of how an affair of this kind should 
be conducted. I was in the room myself the 
whole time, with my eye upon her." 

"That was just before I came," said 
Hanaud. He crossed carelessly to the open 
window which overlooked the road and, 
leaning out of it, looked up the road to the 
corner round which he and his friends had 
come, precisely as the Commissaire had done. 
Then he turned back into the room. 

" Which was the last cupboard or drawer 
that H£fene Vauquier touched ? " he asked. 

"This one." 

Besnard stooped and pulled open the bottom 
drawer of a chest which stood in the 
embrasure of the window. A light-coloured 
dress was lying at the bottom. 

" I told her to be quick," said Besnard, 
"since I had seen that you were coming. She 
lifted this dress out and said that nothing 
was missing there. So I took her back to 
her room and left her with the nurse." 

Hanaud lifted the light dress from the 
drawer, shook it out in front of the window, 
twirled it round, snatched up a corner of it 
and held it to his eyes, and then, folding it 
quickly, replaced it in the drawer. 

" Now show me the first drawer she touched." 
And this time he lifted out a petticoat, and, 
taking it to the window, examined it with a 
greater care. When he had finished with it, 
he handed it to Ricardo to put away and 
stood for a moment or two thoughtful and 
absorbed. Ricardo in his turn examined 
the petticoat. But he could see nothing 
unusual. It was an attractive petticoat, dainty 
with frills and lace, but it was hardly a thing 
to grow thoughtful over. He looked up in 
perplexity and saw that Hanaud was watching 
his investigations with a smile of amusement. 



"When II Ricardohas put that away/ ; he "Yes, monsieur," said Durette. 4 *At the 

said, " we will hear what Helene Vauquier shop of M. CorvaI f in the Rue du Casino, 

has to tell us." a young lady in a dark grey frock and 

He passed out of the door last and, lock- hat bought some cord of this kind at a few 

ing it, placed the key in his pocket. minutes after nine last night. It was just as 



" Hdkne Vauquier's room is, I think, 
upstairs," he said. And he moved towards 
the staircase. 

But as he did so a man m plain clothes, 
who had been waiting upon the landing, 
stepped forward, He carried in his hand a 
piece of thin, strong whipcord. 

"Ah, Duretle ! " cried Besnard. " Monsieur 
Hanaud, I sent Durette this morning round 
the shops of Aix with the cord which was 
found knotted round Mme. Dauvray'.s neck." 

Hanaud advanced quickly to the man. 

" Well f Did you discover anything ? " 

the shop was being closed* I showed Corval 
the photograph of Celie Harlan d which 
M. le Commissaire gave me out of Mme. 
Dauvray^s room, and he identified it as the 
portrait of the girl who had bought the cord." 

Complete silence followed upon Durette's 
words. The whole party stood like men 
stupefied. No one looked towards Wether- 
mrll : even Hanaud averted his eyes. 

" Yes, that is very important," he said, 
awkwardly. He turned away and, followed 
by the others, went up the stairs to the bed- 

(To he continu 



The World as it Appears to Defective Eyes. 

FEW months ago an article 
appeared in this Magazine, 
" How the World Looks to 
the Short-Sighted." 

Several requests have been 
made that other defects might 
be dealt with in similar fashion, and this 
article has been the result The more One 
studies the matter the more one is convinced 
of a new truth — one half the world does not 
know how the other half sees- No eye 
beholds its surroundings quite like any other 
eye, this being equally true if the eyes in 
question are both in the same head. To 
have normal vision is to be abnormal, and 
perhaps Bernard Shaw made not quite so 
exaggerated a statement as he fancied he did 
when he claimed to be almost the only person 
in London who possessed it. 

To show in picture how the world looks to 
defective eyes is not a very easy matter, for 
persons suffering from these diseases, some of 
which are rare, have sometimes no ability or 
inclination to put their impressions on paper 
or canvas, An interesting exception, how- 
ever, is the case of a glaucoma patient, who 
drew several sketches for 
the Lance f^ showing how 
the world appeared to him. 
Glaucoma is a very peculiar 
and serious complaint which 
usually attacks people after 
middle age, and for some 
reason or other is more 
common among Jews than 
Christians ; owing to the 
configuration of the myopic 
eyes the short- sigh ted are 
less liable to it than those 
of a different vision. 

It usually begins with 
cloudiness or fog, while 
artificial lights are seen 
with rainbow and haloes 
round them. A general 
feature of the disease is the 
gradual closing up of the 
field of vision till the 
patient can see only 
what is directly in front 
of him. All the world A strek 

is a darkness, but for a long distance there is 
a dim -lit lane in front of him down which 
humanity approaches, In the Lawet picture 
the glaucoma patient has depicted himself 
walking through a street in Manchester, 
showing the street not as it is, but as it 
appears to him. As a matter of fact it is 
really crowded, but to him it seems empty 
except for the one man whom he sees as a 
black shadow just as he touches him, A 
curious feature in this special case is the fact 
that the patient can evidently see the build- 
ings in a dim way, though the streets appear 
absolutely deserted ! 

The same man describes himself as walk- 
ing through a sunny field which appears to 
him as if ravaged by an enemy; again he 
shows himself in bed, realizing that his wife 
has opened the door and is coming towards 
him with a tray, but unable to visualize this 
till she stands directly in front. 

Glaucoma is an unusual defect, Not so 
astigmatism, which, in a slight degree, is 
present in very many eyes. Astigmatism, to 
put it simply, means the inability of an eye 
to perceive horizontal and vertical lines with 





the same degree 
of clearness. 
According to 
the form of the 
asti^nia t ism, 
either the 
vertical or the 
horizontal line 
will be the 
fainter of the 
two, and, con- 
sequently, at a 
distance the 
object loses 
some of its clearness of outline. 

Usually the astigmatism is too slight to he 
very perceptible. In some cases, however, it 
is extreme. The clock shown in the picture 
is quite complete in all its figures ; but this 
is how the astigmatic eye sees it, the three 
and nine being missing ; the adjoining num- 
bers, being slightly less horizontal, are visible, 
though only faintly so* If the astigmatism 
were of the other kind, the twelve and six 
would be blotted out. 

The general effect of astigmatism is to 
interfere with the sense of form. Thus, in a 
picture shown me a square was given as an 
oblong, such as it would appear to an astig- 
matic eye ; similarly the reverse might occur. 
This tendency to 
see some lines 
longer than they 
are has sometimes 
been a cause of 
trouble to portrait- 
painters— and their 
sitters* Thus, cer- 
tain such painters 
who have been 
blamed for making 
faces and necks 
too long (this 
occurred to a Pari- 
sian artist, for in- 
stance) would con- 
tinue to get good 
commissions if, in- 
stead of talking 
about the artist's 
eye, they corrected 
these optics with 
glasses and saw the 
world as it really 

Very many are 
the curious defects 
to which illus- 
trations are not 

needful. I have spoken of glaucoma, in which 
central vision alone remains. In other cases 
the central vision is lost, the victim being 
able to see only that which is on each side 
of him. Sometimes only one half the field 
of vision remains. 

Occasionally, again, one eye sees something 
higher up than another, while again there are 
micropsia and macropsia— objects appearing 
either larger or smaller than they should be. 

Diplopia, as its name signifies, is the defect 
which causes the eye to see two images of 
the same object Of course, the drunkard's 
temporary diplopia is well known, but it is 
possible for a quite sober person to perceive 
two keyholes instead of one, as the comic 
journals have it, and yet be a total abstainer. 

Diplopia is usually the result of squint 
or general eye -weakness, and is necessarily a 
distressing malady. As a rule, the defect 
manifests itself in regard to small objects 
at some distance — eight feet or so. For 
instance, one lamp will be seen slightly above 
another or to right or left As a rule, the 
false image is fainter than the genuine one, 
but when I looked through the prism, which 
made me for the time being diploptic^ I saw 
the second image quite as clearly as the first, 
but with a tendency to wander. The farther 
away the false image appears from the true, 


viU Jfivftibl IfcftR Mf L KIGA H 




the less distinct is 
its outline. 

Many eye defects, 
of course, are due 
to the bad habits 
of their possessors- 
Tobacco, for in- 
stance, is generally 
held to impair their 
vision, usually in- 
juring the colour- 
sense so that sove- 
reigns and shillings 
become indistin- 
guishable. Accord- 
ing to some medical 
authorities, again, 
the connection be- 
tween eye and tooth 
trouble is more than 
an old wife's fable. 
In his book dealing 
with the subject, 
Hancock relates the 
story of a boy who 
woke up one morn- 
ing to find him- 
self blind* On ex- 
amination, his teeth 
were discovered 

to be crowded together, and a few of 
them were removed ; with the result that by 
e%ening he could distinguish between light 
and darkness. More teeth were removed, 
and in eleven days his sight was fully 
restored. Other cases which tend to show 
the connection between eye and tooth 
trouble have also been noted. Very fre- 
quently occupation has much to do with 
one or other eye defect Thus, nystagmus 
is sometimes known as the miners' disease. 

Nystagmus is an involuntary oscillation of 
the eyeball to and fro or round in its orbit. 
In contradistinction to glaucoma, it is a 
young defect, having been noticed in infants, 
but sometimes it attacks miners after forty. 
Miners are inclined to attribute the failing 
to the bad light, but it is more likely to be 
caused by the continual upward glance so 
often necessitated by their occupation. 

Compositors, for instance, are liable to it \ 
and an incident is told concerning a baker's 
boy who became nystigrnatic for no ascer- 
tainable reason. The cause was clear, 
however, when it was learnt that his duty 
consisted in continually lifting trays of loaves 
above his head, casting an upward glance at 
each to see that all was right. When he 
lifted his body instead x>f his eyes, the trouble 


vanished. The human eye is not made to 
look upward, and the experienced worker in 
such occupations soon learns that a little 
exertion of limb or frame is preferable to 
such movement on the part of the eye. 

Inability to see by day is matched by the 
commoner night-blindness which most of us 
have known in friend or relative. This defect, 
which includes an inability to see even by 
artificial light, is congenital with some people 
and never overcome. It is often hereditary. 
It may also be caused, however, by long 
exposure to over-bright light, coupled with 
fatigue. A strange story is told concerning a 
ship's crew two centuries ago, which was 
overcome by night-blindness so extreme that 
their captain was obliged to force a fight 
with a Spanish privateer during the day, 
knowing that by night his men would be 
helpless. In order to obviate this difficulty 
for future occasions he ordered each sailor to 
keep one eye bound during the daytime, 
discovering, to his gratification, that this eye, 
having rested, was then free of the defect. 
The sailors were very amusing in their efforts 
to retain the bandage well over the eye that 
must be rcadv for night-duty, and so a 

;^r/ft#9ra ctfeti ouble was dis - 



Presbyopia, or long sight, is, of course, 
merely short sight reversed. Asthenopia, or 
eye-strain, has sometimes a similar effect, 
inasmuch as often the near vision fails first, 
distant objects remaining clear for a longer 
period In the end, however, unless pre- 
cautions are taken, the whole vision fails. 
"Stand farther off and I shall recognize you!" 
is his cry, even as the myopic or short- 
sighted person must have his acquaintances 
within arm's length. 

Almost every civilized person has felt that 
sense of fullness in the eyeball and weight 
upon the forehead which constitutes asthen- 
opia in a mild degree. Americans, however, 
are most liable to this defect, even as Germans 
are inclined to myopia. In certain forms it 
may lead to diplopia. 

What is the farthest limit to which the 
human vision can reach ? Power in his book, 
"The Eye and Sight," gives the ability to 
see the star Alcor, situated at the tail of the 
Great Bear, as the test. Indeed, the Arabs 
call it the Test Star. It is most exceptional 
to be able to see Jupiter's satellites with 
the naked eye, though one or two cases are 
recorded, the third satellite being the most 
distinct. Peruvians are said to be the longest 
sighted race on earth. . Humboldt records a 
case where these Indians perceived a human 
figure eighteen miles away, being able to 
recognize that it was human and clad in 
white. This is probably the record for far sight. 

In this article I have touched upon the 
vision as it affects art. Some curious state- 
ments as regards this matter were made by 
Dr. R. Liebrich, ophthalmic surgeon and 
lecturer at St. Thomas's Hospital. In a 
lecture delivered some decades ago the 
speaker gave various interesting comments on 
the world as seen by two artists, Turner and 

His points are too technical to be dwelt 
upon in a popular article, but the gist of 
them is that Turner's strange style of later 
years was due to astigmatism. The lecturer 
then showed a copy of one of the artist's 
oil-paintings in the Kensington Museum, 
and by looking at it through a certain glass 
gave it all the appearance of a picture in 
Turner's later style. In his early days 
Turner painted trees unknown to Nature, 

but a common tree looked at through this 
glass becomes a Turner tree. Thus we can 
only judge Turner's art by seeing the world 
as it appeared to him. 

With regard to colour, again, the eye of 
the artist as well as his work must be studied. 
Mulready, for instance, painted too purple — 
this purple, when analyzed, shows a pre- 
ponderance of blue. Look at one of Mul- 
ready's paintings through a yellow glass, 
however, and these faults disappear, for now 
we are looking through the lens of his eye, 
which has yellowed with age. The violet 
tones of the face become red, the blue 
shadows are grey, while the blue is softened. 
Mulready painted two similar subjects, one 
before and one after this change in the eye. 
One is called " Brother and Sister " (painted 
in 1836, at the age of fifty); the other, 
" The Young Brother" (painted when seventy) 
— both in the Kensington Museum. 

By looking at the last through a yellow 
lens, or, rather, one of a pale sherry colour, 
the colouring becomes exactly like that of 
the first. A technical explanation is given for 
the fact that the blue of the sky does not 
change. The lecturer seems to recommend 
that Mulready's later works should be 
regarded only through this yellowish medium, 
this being really the impression conveyed by 
Mulready's eye. It should be made a little 
darker, however, as later works are examined, 
Mulready's own lens darkening with age. 
The experimenting eye also should be allowed 
to get accustomed to the yellow. 

It would be . interesting if glasses suitable 
for each picture were supplied for our next 
Academy show day, critics slipping lenses off 
and on as new works have to be studied. 
Artists do not believe that their strange repre- 
sentations are due not to superior imagination, 
but to defective eyes. Nevertheless, good 
oculists declare that they can tell by looking 
at a painting the age of the artist and the 
particular eye-disease from which he suffers. 
"It has a pathological interest," said one, 
as he waved his hand round the canvas- 
covered walls on Academy opening day; and 
perhaps this may be the idea of the future, 
when artists who feel out of sorts will merely 
send a picture to the doctor instead of 
submitting eye or pulse. 

by Google 

Original from 

By H. G. WELLS. 

|Y First Aeroplane! What 
vivid memories of youth that 
recalls ! 

Far back it was, in the spring 
of 1 9 1 2, that I acquired " Alauda 
Magna," the Great I .ark, for so 
I christened her ; and I was then ft slender 
young man of four-and-twenty, with hair — 
beautiful blond hair— all over my adventurous 
young head. 1 was a dashing young fellow 
enough, in spite of the slight visual defect 
that obliged me to wear spectacles on 
my prominent, aquiline, but by no means 
shapeless nose — the typical flyer's nose, 
1 was a good runner and swimmer, a 
vegetarian as ever, an all-wooler, and an 
ardent advocate of the extremist views in 
every direction about everything. Precious 
little in the way of a movement j^ot started 
i hat I wasn't in. I owned two motor- 
bicycles, and an enlarged photograph of me 
at that remote date, in leather skull cap, 
goggles, and gauntlets, still adorns my study 
fireplace, I was also a great flyer of war- 
kites, and a voluntary scout master of high 

VoL guilt. — & Copyright, iv^o, 

repute. From the first beginnings of the 
boom in flying, therefore, I was naturally 
eager for the fray. 

I chafed against the tears of my widowed 
mother for a time, and at last told her I 
could endure it no longer. "If I'm not the 
first to fly in Mintonchester," I said, "1 leave 
Mintonchester. I'm your own son, mummy, 
and that's me ! n 

And it didn't take me a week to place my 
order when she agreed. 

I found one of the old price-lists the other 
day in a drawer, full of queer woodcuts of 
still queerer contrivances. What a time thai 
was t An incredulous world had at last con- 
sented to believe that it could fly, and in 
addition to the motorcar people and the 
bicycle people* and so on, a hundred na^\ 
unheard-of firms were turning out aeroplanes 
of every si/e and pattern to meet the demand. 
Amazing prices they got for them, too— 
three hundred and fifty was cheap for the 
things ! 1 find four hundred and fifty, five 
hundred, five hundred guineas in this list of 
mine ; an&HOHfyakfr 'Capable of flight as oak 




trees ! They were sold, too, without any 
sort of guarantee, and with the merest apology 
for instruction. Some of the early aeroplane 
companies paid nearly 200 per cent, on their 
ordinary shares in those early years. 

How well I remember the dreams I had — 
and the doubts ! 

The dreams were all of wonder in the air. 
I saw myself rising gracefully from mv 
mother's paddock, clearing the hedge at the 
end, circling up to get over the vicar's pear 
trees, and away between the church steeple 
and the rise of Withycombe, towards the 
market-place. Lord ! how they would stare 
to see me ! " Young Mr. Betts again ! " they 
would say. " We knew he'd do it." 

I would circle and perhaps wave a hand- 
kerchief, and then I meant to go over 
Lupton's gardens to the grounds of Sir 
Digby Foster. There a certain fair denizen 
might glance from the window. . . . 

Ah, youth ! Youth ! 

My doubts were all of the make I should 
adopt, the character of the engines I should 
choose. . . . 

1 remember my wild rush on my motor- 
bike to London to see the things and give 
my order, the day of muddy traffic dodging as 
I went from one shop to another, my growing 
exasperation at hearing everywhere the same 
refrain, " Sold out ! Can't undertake to 
deliver before the beginning of April." 

Not me ! 

I got "Alauda Magna" at last at a little 
place in Blackfriars Road. She was an order 
thrown on the firm's hands at the eleventh 
hour by the death of the purchaser through 
another maker, and I ran my modest bank 
account into an overdraft to get her — to this 
day I won't confess the price I paid for her. 
Poor little Mumsy 1 Within a week she was 
in my mother's paddock, being put together 
after transport by a couple of not-too- 
mtelligent mechanics. 

The joy of it ! And a sort of adventurous 
tremulousness. I'd had no lessons — all the 
qualified teachers were booked up at stupen- 
dous fees for months ahead ; but it wasn't 
in my quality to stick at a thing like that ! 
I couldn't have endured three days' delay. 
I assured my mother I had had lessons, for 
her peace of mind— it is a poor son who will 
not tell a lie to keep his parent happy. 

I remember the exultant turmoil of walk- 
ing round the thing as it grew into a credible 
shape, with the consciousness of half Minton- 
chester peering at me through the hedge, and 
only deterred by our new trespass-board and 
the disagreeable expression of Snape, our 

trusteed gardener, who was partly mowing the 
grass and partly on sentry-go with his scythe, 
from swarming into the meadow. I lit a 
cigarette and watched the workmen sagely, 
and we engaged an elderly unemployed named 
Snorticombe to keep watch all night to save 
the thing from meddlers. In those days, you 
must understand, an aeroplane was a sign 
and a wonder. 

" Alauda Magna " was a darling for her 
time, though nowadays I suppose she would 
be received with derisive laughter by every 
schoolboy in the land. She was a mono- 
plane, and, roughly speaking, a Bl£riot, and 
she had the dearest, neatest seven-cylinder 
forty horsepower G.K.C engine, with its 
G.B.S. flywheel, that you can possibly imagine. 
I spent an hour or so tuning her up — she had 
a deafening purr, rather like a machine gun 
in action — until the vicar sent round to say 
that he was writing a sermon upon " Peace" 
and was unable to concentrate his mind on 
that topic until I desisted. I took his 
objection in good part, and, after a culmina- 
ting volley and one last lingering look, started 
for a stroll round the town. 

In spite of every endeavour to be modest 
I could not but feel myself the cynosure of 
every eye. I had rather carelessly forgotten 
to change the leggings and breeches I had 
bought for the occasion, and I was also 
wearing my leather skull-cap with ear-flaps 
carelessly adjusted, so that I could hear what 
people were saying. I should think I had 
half the population under fifteen at my heels 
before I was half-way down the High Street. 

"You going to fly, Mr. Betts?" says one 
cheeky youngster. 

" Like a bird ! " I said. 

" Don't you fly till we comes out of school," 
says another. 

It was a sort of Royal progress that evening 
for me. I visited old Lupton, the horti- 
culturist, and he could hardly conceal what 
a great honour he thought it. He took me 
over his new greenhouse— he had now got, he 
said, three acres of surface under glass— and 
showed me all sorts of clever dodges he was 
adopting in the way of intensive culture, and 
afterwards we went down to the end of his 
old flower-garden and looked at his bees. 
When I came out my retinue of kids was 
still waiting for me, reinforced. Then I went 
round by Paramors and dropped into the 
Bull and Horses, just as if there wasn't 
anything particular up, for a lemon squash. 
Everybody was talking about my aeroplane. 
They just shul up for a moment when I came 
in, and then burjsti^ip^i^m^jqi^esti^ns. It's 



odd nowadays to remember all that excite- 
mem. 1 answered what they had to ask me 
and refrained from putting on any side, and 
afterwards Miss Flytema.ii and I went Into 
the commercial-room and turned over the 
pages of various illustrated journals and com- 
pared the pictures with my machine in a 
quiet, unassuming sort of way, Everybody 
encouraged me to go up— everybody, 

I lay stress on that because, as 1 was soon 
to discover, the tides and ebbs of popular 
favour are among the most inexplicable and 
inconsistent things in the world. 

I particularly remember old Cheeseman, 
the pork-butcher, whose pigs I killed, saying 
©ver and over again, in a tone of perfect satis- 

faction, " You won't ave any difficulty in 
going up f you won't. There won't be any 
difficulty 'bout going uf>" And winking and 
nodding to the other eminent tradesmen 
there assembled, 

I hadn't much difficulty in going up. 
"Alauda Magna "was a cheerful lifter, and 
the roar and spin of her engine had hardly 
begun behind me before she was off her 
wheels— snap, snap, they came up above the 
ski gliders — and swaying swiftly across the 
meadows towards the vicarage hedge. She 
had a sort of onward roll to her, rather tike 
the movement of a corpulent but very 
buoyant woman, 

I had just a glimpse of brave little mother, 





trying not to cry, and full of pride in me, on 
the veranda, with both the maids and old 
Snape beside her, and then I had to give all 
my attention to the steering-wheel if I didn't 
want to barge into the vicar's pear trees. 

I'd felt the faintest of tugs just as I came 
up, and fancied I heard a resounding whack 
on our new Trespassers will be Prosecuted 
board, and I saw the crowd of people in the 
lane running this way and that from my loud 
humming approach ; but it was only after 
the flight was all over that I realized what 
that fool Snorticombe had been up to. 
It would seem he had thought the monster 
needed tethering— 1 won't attempt to explain 
the mysteries of his mind — and he had 
tied about a dozen yards of rope to 
the end of either wing and fixed them 
firmly to a couple of iron guy-posts that 
belonged properly to the Badminton net. 
Up they came at the tug of * Alauda," and 
now they were trailing and dancing and 
leaping along behind me, and taking the 
most vicious dives and lunges at everything 
that came within range of them. Poor old 
Templecom got it hottest in the lane, I'm 
told — a frightful whack on his bald head; 
and then we ripped up the vicar's cucumber 
frames, killed and scattered his parrot, 
smashed the upper pane of his study window, 
and just missed the housemaid as she stuck 
her head out of the upper bedroom window. 
I didn't, of course, know anything of this 
at the time — it was on a lower plane altogether 
from my proceedings. I was steering past his 
vicarage — a narrow miss — and trying to come 
round to clear the pear trees at the end of 
the garden — which I did with a scrase— and 
the trailers behind me sent leaves and 
branches flying this way and that. I had 
reason to thank Heaven for mv sturdy little 

Then I was fairly up for a time. 

I found it much more conlusing than I had 
expected ; the engine made such an infernal 
whirr-r-row for one thing, and the steering 
tugged and struggled like a thing alive. But 
I got her heading over the market-place all 
right. We buzzed over Stunt's the green- 
grocer's, and my trailers hopped up his back 
premises and made a sanguinary mess of the 
tiles on his roof, and sent an avalanche of 
broken chimney-pot into the crowded street 
below. Then the thing dipped — I suppose 
one of the guy-posts tried to anchor for a 
second in Stunt's rafters — and I had the 
hardest job to clear the Bull and Horses stables. 
I didn't, as a matter of fact, completely clear 
them. The ski-like alighting runners touched 

the ridge for a moment and the left wing 
bent against the top of the chimney-stack 
and floundered over it in an awkward, destruc- 
tive manner. 

I'm told that my trailers whirled about the 
crowded market-place in the most diabolical 
fashion as I dipped and recovered, but I'm 
inclined to think all this part of the story 
has been greatly exaggerated. Nobody was 
killed, and I couldn't have been half a 
minute from the time I appeared over 
Stunt's to the time when I slid off the stable 
roof and in among Lupton's glass. If people 
had taken reasonable care of themselves 
instead of gaping at me, they wouldn't have 
got hurt. I had enough to do without 
pointing out to people that they were likely 
to be hit by an iron guy-post which had seen 
fit to follow me. If anyone ought to have 
warned them it was that fool Snorticombe. 
Indeed, what with the incalculable damage 
done to the left wing and one of the cylinders 
getting out of rhythm and making an ominous 
catch in the whirr, I was busy enough for 
anything on my own private personal account. 

I suppose I am in a manner of speaking 
responsible for knocking old Dudney off the 
station bus, but I don't see that I can be 
held answerable for the subsequent evolutions 
of the bus, which ended after a charge among 
the market stalls in Cheeseman's shop-window, 
nor do I see that I am to blame because an 
idle and ill-disciplined crowd chose to stam- 
pede across a stock of carelessly-distributed 
earthenware and overturned a butter stall. 1 
was a mere excuse for all this misbehaviour. 

I didn't exactly fall into Lupton's glass, 
and I didn't exactly drive over it. I think 
ricochetting describes my passage across his 
premises as well as any single word can. 

It was the queerest sensation, being carried 
along by this big, buoyant thing, which had, 
as it were, bolted with me, and feeling myself 
alternately lifted up and then dropped with a 
scrunch upon a fresh greenhouse-roof, in spite 
of all my efforts to get control. And the 
infinite relief when at last, at the fifth or 
sixth pounce, I rose — and kept on rising ! 

I seemed to forget everything disagreeable 
instantly. The doubt whether after all "Alauda 
Magna " was good for flying vanished. She 
was evidently very good. We whirred over 
the wall at the end, with my trailers still 
bumping behind, and beyond one of them 
hitting a cow, which died next day, I 
don't think I did the slightest damage to 
anything or anybody all across the breadth 
of Cheeseman's meadow. Then I began to 
rise, steadily but surely, and, getting the 




thing weU in hand, came swooping round 
over his piggeries to give Mintonehester a 
second taste of my quality. 

I meant to go up in a spiral until I was 
clear of all the trees and things and circle 
about the church spire, Hitherto I had 
been so concent rated on the plunges and 
lugs of the monster I was driving, and so 
deafened by the uproar of my engine, that 
I had noticed little of the things that were 
going on below ; but now I could make out ■ 
little lot of people, headed by Lupton with 
a garden fork, rushing obliquely across the 
corner of Cheese man's meadow. It puzzled 

me for a second to imagine what they co»ild 
think they were after* 

Up F went, whirring and swaying and pre- 
sently got a glimpse down the High Street 
of the awful tangle everything had got into 
in the market place, I didn't at the time 
connect that extraordinary smash-up with my 

It was the jar of my whack against the 
weathercock that really stopped my engines. 
Fve never been able to make out quite how 
it was I KDritJrc unfortunate vane ; fwrhaps 

the l^ftEfclfa^F^CTIM Mt """I on 

Stunt s roof spoilt my steering ; but, any* 



how, I hit the gaudy thing and bent it^ and garden fork, with the evident intention of 
for a lengthy couple of seconds I wasn't by jabbing it into my stomach. I am always 
any means sure whether I wasn't going to pretty cool and quick-witted in an emergency, 
dive straight down into the marketplace, 1 I dropped off poor "Alauda Magna" like a 
got her right by a supreme effort — I think shot, dodged through the piggery, went up 
the people I didn't smash might have by Frobisher's orchard, nipped over the yard 
squeezed out one drop of gratitude for that wall of Hinks's cottages, and was into the 
—drove pitching at the tree- tops of Withy- police-station by the back way before anyone 
combe, gut round, and realized the engines could get within fifty feet of me* 
were stopping* 
There wasn't any 
time to survey the 
country and 
arrange for a suit- 
able landing- 
placej there 
wasn't any chance 
uf clearing the 
course. It wasn't 
my fault if a quarter 
of the population 
of MIntonchester 
was swarming out 
over Checseman's 
meadows. Ii was 
the only chance I 
had to land with- 
out a smash, and 
I took it. Down I 
tame, a steep glide, 
doing the best I 
could for myself. 

Perhaps I did 
bowl a few people 
over; but progress 
is progress. 

And I had to 
kill his pigs. It 
was a case of 
either dropping 
among the pigs 
and breaking my 
rush, or going full 
tilt into the xhtu- 
gatediron piggeries 
beyond. I might 
have been cut to 
ribbons. And pigs 
are horn to die. 


I stopped, and stood up stiffly upon the 
framework and looked behind me. It didn't 
take me a moment to realize that Minton- 
chester meant to take my poor efforts to give 
it an Aviation Day all to itself in a spirit of 
ferocious ingratitude. 

The air was full of the squealing of the 
two pigs I had pinned under my machine 
and the bawling of the nearer spectators. 
Lnpton occupied the middle distance with a 


rnashed the 

"No/* I said; u but 
people seem to have got 
something the matter with 
them, I want to be locked 
in a cell," . * , 

For a fortnight, do you 
know, I wasn't allowed 
to come near my own 
machine, I went home 
from the police-station as soon as the first 
excitement had blown over a little, going 
round by Love I^anc and the Chart so as 
not to arouse any febrile symptoms, I 
found mother frightfully indignant, you can 
be sure, at the way I had been treated, 
And there, as I say, was I, standing a sort of 
siege in the upstairs rooms, and sturdy little 

fields, being walked rouniT and stared at by 



everybody in the world but me. Cheese- 
man's theory was that he had seized her. 
There came a gale one night, and the dear 
thing was blown clean over the hedge among 
Lupton's greenhouses again, and then Lupton 
sent round a silly note to say that if we 
didn't remove her she would be sold to 
defray expenses, going off into a long tirade 
about damages and his solicitor. So mother 
posted off to Clamps', the furniture removers 
at Upnorton Corner, and they got hold of a 
timber-wagon, and popular feeling had allayed 
sufficiently before that arrived for me to go in 
person to superintend the removal. There 
she lay like a great moth above the debris of 
some cultural projects of Lupton's, scarcely 
damaged herself except for a hole or so and 
some bent rods and stays in the left wing and 
a smashed skid. But she was bespattered 
with pigs' blood and pretty dirty. 

I went at once by instinct for the engines, 
and had them in perfect going order before 
the timber-wagon arrived. 

A sort of popularity returned to me with 
that procession home. With the help of a 
swarm of men we got "Alauda Magna" 
poised on the wagon, and then I took my 
seat to see she balanced properly, and a 
miscellaneous team of seven horses started 
to tow her home. It was nearly one o'clock 
when we got to that, and all the children 
turned out to shout and jeer. We couldn't 
go by Pook's Lane and the vicarage, because 
the walls are too high and narrow, and so 
we headed across Cheeseman's meadows for 
Stokes' Waste and the common, to get round 
by that ditour. 

I was silly, of course, to do what I did — 
I see that now — but sitting up there on my 
triumphal car with all the multitude about 
me excited me. I got a kind of glory on. 
1 really only meant to let the propellers spin 
as a sort of hurrahing, but I was carried 
away. Whuz-z-z-z-z ! It was like something 
blowing up, and behold ! I was sailing and 
plunging away from my wain across the 
common for a second flight. 

"Lord!" I said. 

I fully meant to run up the air a little way, 
come about, and take her home to our pad- 
dock, but those early aeroplanes were very 
uncertain things. 

After all, it wasn't such a very bad shot to 
land in the ricarage garden, and that prac- 
tically is what I did. And I don't see that 
it was my fault that all the vicarage and a lot 
of friends should be having lunch on the 
lawn. They were doing that, of course, so 
as to be on the spot without having to rush 

out of the house when "Alauda Magna " 
came home again. Quiet exultation — that 
was their game. They wanted to gloat over 
every particular of my ignominious return. 
You can see that from the way they had 
arranged the table. I can't help it if Fate 
decided that my return wasn't to be so 
ignominious as all that, and swooped me 
down on the lot of them. 

They were having their soup. They had 
calculated on me for the dessert, I suppose. 

To this day I can't understand how it is I 
didn't kill the vicar. The forward edge of 
the left wing got him just under the chin and 
carried him back a dozen yards. He must 
have had neck vertebrae like steel ; and even 
then I was amazed his head didn't come off. 
Perhaps he was holding on underneath ; but 
I can't imagine where. If it hadn't been for 
the fascination of his staring face I think I 
could have avoided the veranda, but, as 
it was, that took me by surprise. That was 
a fair crumple up. The wood must have 
just rotted away under its green paint ; but, 
anyhow, it and the climbing roses and the 
shingles above and everything snapped and 
came down like stage scenery, and I and 
the engines and the middle part drove clean 
through the French windows on to the 
drawing-room floor. It was jolly lucky for 
me, I think, that the French windows weren't 
shut. There's no unpleasanter way of gettirg 
hurt in the world than flying suddenly through 
thin window-glass*; and I think I ought to 
know. There was a frightful jawbation, but 
the vicar was out of action, that was one 
good thing. Those deep, sonorous sen- 
tences ! But perhaps they would have 
calmed things. . . . 

That was the end of " Alauda Magna," my 
first aeroplane. I never even troubled to 
take her away. I hadn't the heart to. . . . 

And then the storm burst. 

The idea seems to have been to make 
mother and me pay for everything that had 
ever tumbled down or got broken in Minton- 
chester since the beginning of things. Oh ! 
and for any animal that had ever died a 
sudden death in the memory of the oldest 
inhabitant. The tariff ruled high, too. Cows 
were twenty-five to thirty pounds and upward ; 
pigs about a pound each, with no reduction 
for killing a quantity ; verandas — verandas 
were steady at forty -five guineas. Dinner 
services, too, were up, and so were tiling and 
all branches of the building trade It seemed 
to certain persons m MirVionchester, 1 believe, 
that an era of unexampled prosperity had 
dawned upon the place — only limited, in fact, 

6 4 



by the solvency of me and mother. The 
vicar tried the old *' sold to defray expenses " 
racket, but I told him he might sell. 

I pleaded defective machinery and the 
hand of Clod, did my best to shift the 
responsibility on to the firm in Blaukfriars 
Road, and, as an additional precaution, tiled 
my petition in bankruptcy, I really hadn't 
any properly in the world, thanks to mother's 
goodness, except my two motor - bicycles, 
which the brutes took, my photographic 
dark room, and a lot of bound books on 
aeronautics and progress generally. Mother, 
of course, wasn't responsible. She hadn't 
lifted a wing. 

Well, for all that, disagreeables piled up so 
heavily on me, what with lu-ing shunted 
after by a rag- tag and bobtail of schoolboys 
and golf caddies and hobbledehoys when I 
went out of doors, threatened with persona) 
violence by stupid people like old Lupton, 
who wouldn't understand that a man can't 
pay what he hasn't got, pestered by the wives 
of various gentlemen who saw fit to become 
out-of-works on the strength of alleged 
injuries, and served with all sorts of silly 
summonses for all sorts of fancy offences, 
such as mischievous mischief and man- 

slaughter and wilful damage and trespass, 
that I simply had to go away from Minton- 
Chester to Italy, and leave poor little mother 
to manage them in her own solid> undemon- 
strative way. Which she did, I must admit* 
like a Brick. 

They didn't get much out of her, anyhow, 
but she had to break up our little home at 
Mintonchester and join me at Arosa, in spite 
of her dislike of Italian cooking. She found 
me already a bit of a celebrity because I had 
made it record, so it seemed, by falling down 
three separate crevasses on three successive 
days* But that's another story altogether. 

From start to finish I reckon that first 
aeroplane cost my mother over nine hundred 
pounds. If I hadn't put my foot down, and 
she had stuck to her original intention of 
paying all the damage, it would have cost her 
three thousand. . . . But it was worth it. It 
was worth it. I wish I could live it all over 
again ; and many an old codger like me sits 
at home now and deplores those happy, 
vanished, adventurous times, when any lad of 
spirit was free to fly — and go anywhere — and 
smash anything— and discuss the question 
afterwards of just what the damages amounted 
to and what his legal liability might be, 


Tike Pageant off 4Ee Moiatkso 


Author of i( Life Histories &f Familiar Plants" ^ Some Nature Hi&gjaphies" ** Peeps Into Natures 
iVays,** efr. t £tr. Illustrated from Original Photographs fry the Author. 

NOVEL feature in one of the 
London music-halls takes the 
form of a huge post -card 
ill bum, which opens and re- 
veals various tableaux viva n is. 
The first picture may repre- 
sent a Japanese maiden in all the gorgeous 
fines of the Far East Then the book closes, 
and all Is dark, t 'nee more the cover is thrown 
back and another page revealed. The scene 
is now in Holland, and quaint figures are seen 
wearing costumes of red, blue, and white, 
The picture disappears and 
the book once more opens. 1 1 
is night, and a child, clothed 
in rags, is seen shivering on 
the pavement of a London 
street. So each picture that 
follows comes as an artistic 

I^et us imagine for the 
moment that we could look 
upon a British landscape in 
this manner. Our eyes sud- 
denly open some January 
day upon a scene like that 
shown in the first illustration 
— a day when winter's frosty 

breath pervades the whole 
atmosphere. It accumulates 
on the branches and twigs of 

the trees and clothes them 

with a garment of tiny 
crystals that scintillate with 

diamond hues. Then a parti- 

cularly heavy breath seems 

to almost obliterate from view 

the whitening trees. Even some 

of the water of the fast-running 

brook has been caught in the 

icy grip of the Frost King, 

while the ground is wholly 

enveloped in a smooth mantle 

of white, over which the 

waves of frosty air can be 

seen flowing. Then a flutter 

ing object amongst the 

branches suddenly swoops 

down to the water's edge, 

and sweet notes of .music 

burst from its scarlet breast, 

for the robin sings even 

when hungry and cold. The 

Vol. xxxix. — 0. 

icy wind whistles through thfe trees, and 
snowy crystals fall and glisten ; biJt suddenly 
all has become dark. 

After an interval of many days another 
picture appears, A February morn, when 
the alder trees on the opposite side of the 
brook stand out cold and distinct against a 
windy and storm- tossed sky. On the ground 
is a worn carpet of brown and shrivelled 
leaves, grass blades, and the stems and stalks 
of many plants whose life has been spent. 
Nevertheless, near the water's edge are 





patches of vivid green that speak of new life. 
There is music, too, for the brook rushes 
over the pebbles at its bottom with a merry 
jingle, and in the distance the loud voice of 
the missel-thrush can be heard occasionally 
between the boreal blasts ; but as we listen 
the scene vanishes. 

The darkness again clears and March has 
come. An inspiring, though as yet but Un- 

like sentinels by the water's edge, are also 
putting on their uniforms of green ; while 
from the ruddy male catkins of the alder 
across the stream clouds of yd low pollen dust 
are spread on almost every breeze. The 
carpet that covers the ground has lost its 
brown hue and is now adorned by many new 
colours, amongst which the gob Jen stars of 
the lesser celandine vie in splendour with the 
wide-eyed dandelions, and, 
together with the white 
flowers of the dead nettle and 
the fresh green of the new- 
grass and of the young nettles, 
add to the charm of awaken- 
ing life. The chiff-chaff has 
arrived, for, although unseen, 
its lively call betrays its 
presence ; but, as the picture 
fades from view, a sound is 
heard that truly proclaims 
that spring has come — it is 
the voice of the cuckoo. 

Again from the darkness 
appears a picture. All is a 
lovely tracery of green — the 
green of May. Against the 
blue sky the delicate young 


perfectly visible, touch of life 

seems now to invest the 

scene ; every twig and every 

grass blade appears lively and 

j:ert. Sudden glimpses of bright 

sunlight seem to startle the 

birds into wondrous activity, 

which activity is almost 

instantly subdued when the 

dark and broken rain-clouds 

extinguish the bright light. 

There is evidently life below 

ground as well, for the busy 

mule has thrown up many 

heaps of fine red soil while 

searching for his breakfast. 

The neighbouring rooks have 

become noisy, and the 

bleating of young lam lis (one 

of which carries a not unmusical bell) adds 

sounds of country life grateful to the can 

Another interval has elapsed and April has 
made its advent- The sky is of the brightest 
blue, and the hawthorn bush in the centre of 
the scene has now developed some delicate 
sprays of bright green foliage that are most 
attractive to the eye. The tall Lombardy 
poplars, that in January and February stood 


leaves are seen to be enveloping every 
branch. The poplars look charming in their 
new hue, and the distant elm trees now show 
but few of their branches ; even the cold- 
looking boughs of the alders have become 
graceful. The flower buds of the hawthorn 
bush are beginning to show their white 

i%to$$&Mm% ne, " e5 are 

top the grasses ; 



while gaudy tortoiseshell and 
orange-tip butterflies flutter 
amongst the blossoms by the 
water's edge. As the light 
declines the corn-crake utters 
its grating u creak -creak, 11 a 
sound that seems strangely 
at discord with all its sur- 
roundings; but it suddenly 
ceases as if ashamed, for the 
nightingale has commenced 
his music-lesson. 

The scene has changed to 
leafy June, Every tree has 
novvdonned its summer finery, 
while the herbage in the fore- 
ground has now grown thick 
and tall ; goosegrass, nettles, 
and thistles jostle each other 
as they strive to obtain a 
footing on the moist bank, 
almost hiding from view the 
stream itself. The meadow 
behind the alder trees has 
likewise become obscured by 
the alders' developing leaves. 
White butterflies are continu- 
ally sipping nectar from the 
various flowers, and a gay- 
painttd chaffinch has also 
alighted with a merry "pink- 
pink" to quench its thirst at 
the stream. A cloud of gnats 
are performing some graceful 
evolutions above the water t 
rising and falling with remark- 
able rhythm, and about the 
river's bank large humble-bees 
drowsily hum. 

A new picture again ap- 
pears, for July has come- The 
es have grown tall, and, 
like the nettles, have pro 
duced their flowers, while the 
bright green foliage of the 
trees has matured into a much 
deeper tone. The voices of 
many of the song-birds have 
become subdued, and the 
cuckoo and the nightingale 
are no longer heard ; the sky- 
lark, however, still soars aloft 
and makes merry with its 
song. Insect life abounds on 
every side. Gay ■ coloured 
butterflies, and beetles with 
armour of metallic splendour, 
and flies and caterpillars 
of wondrous kinds swarm 




amongst the vegetation. The life of the 
scene has attained its meridian, and here and 
there a yellowed leaf tells of the receding 

When the picture again appears August has 
come, and dense masses of deep green foliage 
clothe every tree. The early cuckoo (lowers, 
celandines, and other spring blossoms have 

brown stalks predominate, and amongst them 
may be found many fallen leaves. The young 
bramble in front of the hawthorn bush has 
produced a few blackberries on its trailing 
branches which bend towards the stream, 
and the hawthorn's green haws are becoming 
red. The flowering stems of the wild 
angelica have grown tall, and its flowers are 
rapidly changing into seeds ; 
and, by the water's edgt, 
mushrooms and toadstools 
of weird forms and vivid 
colours abound. The robin 
has again become a popular 
artiste and the hedge- 
sparrow chirps from the 
hawthorn bush. From the 
distance comes the sound 
of the sportsman's gun, work- 

Iing destruction amongst the 
Out of a mist which 
slowly clears there is re- 
vealed a scene enriched with 
sparkling dewdrops, that 
glisten like jewels from every 
grass blade, leaf, and spider's 


now entirely disappeared, 
and in their place are great 
willow - herbs with large 
purplish red flowers* whose 
colours contrast with the 
deep shadows of l he stream 
and fascinate the eye + The 
water fig wort has also pro 
duced its meat - coloured 
blossoms, so attractive to 
wasps until the cold days 
come ; and in the fore 
ground a plant of the wild 
angelica has thrown up its 
umbels of cream-coloured 
flowers. When the flowers 
of these late plants appear 
we may know that the 
season has advanced and 
that the glory of the landscape will hence- 
forth be of a different type. An occa- 
sional silver - washed fritillary butterfly is 
seen, and, in the shadow of the stream, a 
tiger moth has flashed its gaudy colours 
during a brief flight. 

It is September. Autumn has come ; the 
leaves all around have assumed a mellow hue 
that gives a warm tone to the landscape. 
There is no longer bright green grass, but 

web, until (bey are consumed by the sun's 
warm rays at midday. When the October 
mist has lifted its thick euriain from the 
river the glory of autumn tints is revealed. 
The leaves of the alders have changed from 
green to blue grey » and those of the poplars 
have yellowed as well as those of the dis- 
tant elms-^ .Masses of leaves have now fallen, 
and the sky and the meadow over the 
$trda"Wvife":.rE^fiF to view 


between the branches, In 
the meadow, too, the voice 
of the fanner and the jingle 
of harness are heard as he 
turns round his plough. 

Again there is a mist ; but 
now it clears more rapidly, 
and a cold air blows that 
gives a tingling sensation to 
one's face which reminds one 
thai November has come. 
Many of the alders' branches 
have become almost bare, 
and the poplars' trunks and 
twigs are now exposed, while 
the foreground vegetation has 
dwindled down sufficiently to 
permit a full view of the 
river again. Leaves are con- 
tinually whirled downwards 
in rapid succession by the 
gusty wind, and the brown 
carpet below steadily increases 
in thickness. Passing carts 
on the distant road, loaded 
with mangolds, tell us that 
the last harvest is being 
carried from the fields. From 
over the ploughlands peewits 
call, and from the hushes, 
where the missel thrush feeds, 
may be heard harsh notes 
that tell of the approach to 
his preserves of hungry black- 
birds or redwings. 

In December the landscape 
is again exposed to view. 
Winter has followed close on 
autumn's heels ; a sharp frost 
has suddenly spread over the 
land, and a slight snow-storm 
has sprinkled the meadows 
with white. Near the stream, 
where the young grass and 
the winter nettle shoots are 
growing, the snow has melted 
at the first signs of sunlight, 
and it is fast disappearing 
from the fields* The distant 
elm trees and the hawthorn 
bush in the foreground are still 
yeilow with late clingingleaves, 
but now the sun's rays have 
penetrated the misty clouds, 
and soon every branch will 
he bare. The robin , however, 
sings apparently without a 
care, and the noisy rooks 
seem hopeful of the future- 


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?IVER the seven sandy miles 
V which separate the town of 
I Mclonvillc from the English 
settlement on Lake Topekah 
there plies, three days in every 
week, a heavy-laden vehicle 
known as the Melonville Express. 

Its pace belies its title, for the road is 
rough, and it is drawn by a raw -boned, mud- 
coloured horse, whose driver performs, for 
an infinitesimal fee, the office of a common 

He is a silent, stern-faced man, with snow- 
white hair, though his years have barely 
numbered the half of life's allotted span ; 
and those who watch him on his lonely 
round grow silent at his coming, with a sense 
of sudden awe. 

For, many years ago, when the mud- 
coloured horse was a playful four- year old, 
and his owner a Fresh-complexioned English 
boy, they played the lending parts in the 
final act of a grim and awful tragedy 

It would seem that the humdrum routine 
of an expressman's daily round demands no 
special mental attainments. Certainly one 
would argue that an ICton education, followed 
by two years* tuition at the hands of a 
fashionable Army crammer, was an unneces- 
sarily extravagant preparation for it But, 

when the Sandhurst lists came out t time 
after time, leaving the name of Frederick 
Burton unrecorded, his parents, in their 
wisdom, exported him to Florida, 

Migrating, by chance, to the English 
colony on Lake Topekah, Freddy Burton 
embarked, with light heart and inadequate 
knowledge, upon the perilous occupation 
of orange culture. Two years afterwards he 
emerged from the ruins of his shatiered 
castles, to realize that their foundations had 
been laid on shifting sands. Surprised and 
disgusted, he set himself to consider his 
position, and to lake stock of the possibilities 
remaining to hi in. 

His available assets, he found, amounted 
to the sum of three hundred dollars in 
United States currency ; and an idea. 

It was not a bewildeimgly brilliant nor 
even a specially original one, but it served. 
For Freddy Burton invested one half his 
capital in the purchase of a horse and 
wagon, decorated the near side panel of the 
latter with a yellow- [minted legend setting 
forth his name and purpose, and took the 

And so, three days in every week, there 
plies oveiQlWBin&le^en sandy miles which 
sepatjdtflV^IP(WiFWI^M#^lle from the 
English colony on Lake Topekah a heavy- 






laden vehicle known as the Melonville 

It was a monotonous existence enough. 
Each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday 
morning, rain or shine, he made the round of 
the English colony's scattered habitations, 
and booked his miscellaneous orders. Each 
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evening he 
delivered, with praiseworthy punctuality, a 
varied assortment of provisions, groceries, 
hardware, cutlery, furniture, fertilizers, and 
Melonville millinery at his clients' residences. 
Then he stabled the mud-coloured horse and 
retired to the solitude of a four-roomed log- 
cabin, deserted, on the completion of his 
section, by the late overseer of the Lake 
Topekah Railroad Company. 

For a healthy Eton boy it was a demoraliz- 
ing, wearisome existence ; but he had fallen 
under the lethargic spell of the land of his 
adoption, and he worried along, contentedly 
enough, until the „ pregnant moment came 
when Providence, inscrutable, decreed that 
he should meet his fate. 

And a tempting little fate in truth she 
seemed, as he saw her first, in the misty 
glory of an April morning, a shapely, reckless, 
bare-legged cracker girl of seventeen, with an 
imp of mischief in her laughing eyes and a 
tumbled mass of corn-coloured hair about 
her shoulders. Perched upon the comfort- 
able summit of a cypress fence-post, she 
hailed him as he drew alongside ; and 
Freddy Burton, nothing loath, pulled up. 

"Good morning," he said, pleasantly. 
" What can I do for you ? " 

Her blue eyes twinkled, and she dropped 
lightly from her elevation to the sandy road. 
Then; from some mysterious recess within 
her bodice, she brought forth a crumpled 
sheet of paper, scribbled with pencilled 
memoranda in an unformed, childish hand. 
Perusing it with professional gravity, Freddy 
Burton found the lengthy list to contain such 
di\erse commodities as an axe- handle, four 
tins of condensed milk, a demijohn of rye 
whisky, and a flannel shirt. 

" liad says, will you please bring them all 
back with you this evening? And you'll have 
to pay for them too, 'cause they won't give 
him credit any more at the store, especially 
the whisky. He'll give you the money to- 
morrow morning — at least, he told me to 

say he would, and " She broke off 

breathless, and looked up into his face with 
an irresistibly merry smile. 

The susceptible driver of the Melonville 
Express folded the crumpled paper and 
placed it carefully in his breast-pocket 

Then, as he looked into her laughing eyes, 
an inspiration seized him. 

" It's a lovely morning for a drive," he said. 
" Why not come and help me choose them ? " 

"Like this?" 


" No shoes and stockings ! No hat ! 
Folks would talk, wouldn't they?" 

"Let them talk." 

" You mean it, sure ? Just as I am ? " 

Prophetically forestalling the marriage 
service, Freddy Burton announced his in- 
tention of taking her just as she was, and the 
little gipsy's eyes glistened with excitement. 

" I'll come," she cried, and in a moment 
she was beside the wagon, a small, bare foot 
upon the step, a hand upstretched to his. 
Then she paused. 

" Say, how much do I have to pay ? " 

" Nothing at all," he responded, serenely. 
" Give me the pleasure of your company and 
we'll call it quits." 

She made no more ado, but gripped his 
hand and mounted nimbly to the vacant seat 
beside him. The mud-coloured horse thrust 
his lean neck into his roomy collar, and the 
delayed express creaked forward on its sandy 

She talked, the little cracker girl, with 
scarce a pause or intermission, jumping from 
topic to topic with a happy inconsequence 
that almost took his breath away. In her 
bright, disjointed way she had outlined for 
him the history of her uneventful little life 
before they had covered one half that 
memorable journey. 

" And you'd never guess that I was 
English-born, now, would you ? " she ques- 
tioned, pointing to an arched, bare foot that 
scarcely touched the wagon boards. " See ; 
I've lived so long down here among the flat 
woods I guess I've most run wild. Besides, 
it's cooler, and shoes cost a heap of money 
too." She pursed her red lips into an 
irresistible smile, and her blue eyes twinkled 
with enjoyment. 

" We never have no money, dad and me. 
Never have had since mother died, and that's 
away back as far as I remember anything. 
You see, dad spends all he earns, and he 
owes a heap besides. Those things I wrote 
down on the paper now, he'll never pay you 
for them. Say," she concluded, suddenly, 
" don't you buy them." 

" And what would become of your house- 
keeping if I didn't? I suppose you are 
housekeeper, aren't you ? " 

" 1 suppose I am, when here's anything to 
keep," she laughed. "But that ain't always," 



"And your father," suggested Burton; 
"tell me something about him." He found 
the situation a trifle bewildering, and he was 
trying to focus his new acquaintance. " What 
does he do ? " 

" Drinks a lot more than he ought to," she 
responded, promptly. " And he's an old 
ruffian when he's drunk, dad is." 

She nodded her head sagely, but the con- 
templation of her parent's failing did not 
seem to disconcert her in the least, for use is 
second nature, and the horizon of the flat 
woods is very limited at the best. 

"And your name? You can read mine 
on the side of the wagon ; but we've known 
each other nearly an hour and you haven't 
told me who you are." 

" I'm Kitty Westley. You've heard of old 
man Westley, maybe? Yes, I guessed you 
had ; but he's not so bad as folks would 
make him out — not when you come to know 
him rightly." 

She had been watching his face more 
closely than he knew, but the involuntary 
exclamation of surprise that escaped him did 
not disturb her much. 

" Honest, now, you thought we was just 
crackers yourself, didn't you ? " she asked. 

" I did until I saw you," said Freddy 

She looked full into his eyes, with the 
unaffected simplicity of a questioning child. 

"Well?" she queried, naively. "And what 
do you think now ? " 

" Don't you trouble about that," he 
responded, emphatically. " I'll tell you some 
other time. See, we've almost reached our 

And so it was. The solitude of the 
scented pine woods had given place to an 
open, stump-strewn clearing, and beyond it 
lay revealed, incongruously picturesque, a 
typical South Florida town in process of 

Here and there, grotesquely self-conscious, 
some massive structure towered a head 
and red-brick shoulders above his humbler 
brethren. And the resentful pigmies, 
clustering close about him, reared heaven- 
wards their wooden sky signs ; blazoning 
their hidden virtues, as little men are fain 
to do, lest they should go unnoticed in 
competition with their superiors. 

A foot or more above the level of the 
sandy street a rickety side-walk warped, on 
rotten supports, in the glaring sunlight. 

In the shelter of their verandas Melon- 
ville's business men, in shirt-sleeves clipped 
by elastic garters at the elbow, smoked or 

chewed the stunted ends of oily black 
cigars. Below them, sunning on the door- 
stoops, negro children munched pink slices 
of water-melon, or imbibed alternate solace 
from unwieldy lengths of sugar-cane. 

And, wherever the shade permitted, a 
patient horse stood tethered to a convenient 
hitching-post, a spider-wheeled buggy at his 
heels, a swarm of gnats about his nose, and a 
hungry horse fly at his flank. 

Dark brown against the vivid blue of a 
cloudless skya pair of buzzards sailed on heavy 
wing, wheeling and circling slowly to and fro. 

And over all the promiscuous jumble of 
wooden stores, of saw-mills, livery stables and 
hotels, of green shutters and red roofs, 
rickety side-walks and sandy highways, the 
gleaming eye of a semi-tropical sun stared 
down, with fierce, unwinking glare. 

The mud-coloured horse ploughed his 
heavy way down the main street, towards the 
well-known stable where he was wont to take 
his midday rest, and Freddy Burton pointed 
with his whip to a gaudy wooden building as 
they passed. 

One of its windows displayed an elaborate 
menu, compounded of such diverse delicacies 
as clam chowder and pineapple ice cream ; 
the other a facetious pictorial presentment 
of a skeleton and a fat man, purporting to 
portray the self-same customer before and 
after partaking of the far famed fifty-cent 
lunch at Shannon's cafe. In the centre of 
the side-walk, outside the front door of his 
establishment, stood the redoubtable pro- 
prietor, Sol Shannon, in person. 

He was a tall, thin man with a face 
of parchment hue, sinister in expression, 
curiously Chinese in type. His yellow skin, 
high cheek-bones, and almond-shaped slits of 
eyes were all so redolent of the Mongolian 
race that he only lacked the distinction of a 
pendent pigtail to complete the caricature. 
But, instead, he wore his black hair close 
cropped above his shaven face, for he was a 
naturalized citizen of the United States, who 
bitterly resented the nickname of Shanghai, 
bestowed upon him in virtue of his suggestive 

In response to Freddy Burton's greeting 
he grunted an inaudible retort, but he scfbwlei I 
angrily at the passenger, who heeded him 
scarcely at all. He followed the wagon with 
his narrow eyes till it turned the corner, and 
spat viciously in the sand. Then he rolled 
himself a cigarette, with dirty, taper fingers ; 
and so retreated, like a snarling beast, within 


"I'll tell you what we'll do/' said the 




misguided expressman. " As soon as we've 
made our purchases we'll go round to 
Shanghai's and lunch there." 

For a moment the girl looked at him with 
a puzzled expression ; then she laughed. 

" So we will. Sure you won't be ashamed 
of me, though ? Maybe Shanghai won't serve 
lunch to a girl with bare legs." 

" Td like to see him refuse," said Freddy 
Burton. As a matter of fact, the detail had 
entirely escaped his recollection. 

And so it fell out that, twenty minutes 
later, the curiously-assorted couple presented 
themselves at Shanghai's restaurant, found 
an unoccupied table in a secluded corner, 
and took possession. The place was com- 
paratively empty, and its patrons, after be- 
stowing a glance of amusement on the pair, 
returned to the formal business of feeding. 

Freddy Burton, with royal hospitality, 
dispatched a negro waiter to the nearest 
saloon and obtained, in exchange for three 
dollars, a fictitiously labelled bottle of sweet 
champagne. The occasion, he felt, was an 
exceptional one and called for observance in 
orthodox fashion. For it is a tenet of all 
right-minded Englishmen, lunching publicly 
in doubtful company, to call for champagne 
and chance the consequence. And Kitty 
VVestley, to whom the flavour of the beverage 
was as novel as the experience was exciting, 
chattered away to her host with a happy 
abandonment which he found quite irre- 

But the proprietor hovered about the 
vicinity of their table, obviously displeased ; 
and once, as he turned away to answer the 
summons of a departing guest, Freddy Burton 
caught so ugly an expression on his face that 
he was fairly startled. 

" I wonder what's the matter with 
Shanghai ? " he said. " Seems to have lost 
his temper." 

44 He's jealous, I guess." 

She laughed serenely. 

"Jealous! Of you?" 

She nodded. 

"Of me and of you," she said. 

" But why ? " Freddy Burton had grown 
suddenly serious. " Do you know him well ? " 

"Better than I want to. Him and dad 
are old friends," 

She sipped her champagne and considered 
for a moment Then she leaned across the 
table and dropped her voice :— 

"Shanghai wants me to marry him." 

" To marry him ! " he repeated, in horrified 
bewilderment. " Why, you're only a child ; 
and he's a Chinaman, or next door to one." 

Vol. xxxix.-K>. 

"I'm seventeen," she laughed. "And 
Shanghai's an American citizen ; at least, he 
claims to be. Dad says I'll have to do it 
some day." 

But the light died out of her eyes and the 
laughter from her voice quite suddenly. 

From the farther end of the restaurant 
Shanghai had fixed his gaze upon her, with a 
scowl too malevolent for misconstruction. 

" I won't ! " she said, fiercely. " I won't ! 
I won't ! " And she stamped a bare foot 
petulantly upon the matted floor. 

" You won't if I can help it," said Freddy 
Burton. " Has he asked you?" 

" Heaps and heaps of times." 

"What did you say?" 

" Said I'd cut my throat before I'd marry 

"That's right. Have some more cham- 

He filled her glass, and Shanghai, watch- 
ing, cursed a negro waiter so furiously that 
the man dropped a pile of plates with a 
clatter on the floor and fled for his life. 

"Nice kind of a husband he'd make, 
wouldn't he? Guess what he told me." 


" That he'd cut my throat himself before 
he'd see me married to another man. Maybe 
thinks I'm scared of him. But I ain't, not 

She snapped her fingers in the direction of 
the proprietor, and her merry laugh rang true. 

" Say, if you've finished we'd best light 
out. I reckon dad will think I've run away 
with you." 

"You might do worse," responded the 
expressman, emptying his glass. 

He paid his bill and returned Shanghai's 
scowl with interest as they left the cate. 

But the homeward drive was much more 
silent than the morning's, and Freddy Burton 
did not feel that the moment was yet pro- 
pitious for his introduction to old man 
Westley. So he dropped his pretty fare at 
the corner of a tumbledown snake-fence, and 
watched her, laden with many packages, 
pattering on small, bare feet into the 

Then he drove moodily homewards, and 
sat up later than his wont in the solitude of 
the four-roomed log cabin, which suddenly 
struck him as being sadly out of repair. 

But the pleasant experience was obviously 
one to be repeated, and Kitty Westley must 
be protected at all costs from the influence 
of Shanghai. These things Freddy Burton 
decided, and promp'Jv acted upon. And so 

il c m#tfh#*rf^ coloured horse 






learned to stop of his own accord at the sight 
of a bare- legged cracker girl perched upon a 
fence post ; and within a month the English 
community had ceased to whisper and to 
shrug their shoulders when the Melonville 
expressman and his pretty passenger drove 
by. After all, so long as he was punctual in 
his deliveries, it was no concern of theirs. 

The springtime ripened into summer; old 
man Westley's liquor bill swelled apace ; 
Shanghai's yellow face j^rew murderous in 
expression ; and Freddy Burton, in his lone 
log-cabin, took to dreaming* 

That is a dangerous occupation for an 
English bachelor in the Florida tkit woods. 
If the subject of his dreams chance to be a 
bare- legged cracker girl, with blue eyes and 
corn -coloured hair, there are two probable 
conclusions. With a man of Freddy Burton's 
temperament only one is possible. 

Brooding, night by night, on the loneliness 

of his present existence, he convinced himself, 
quite speedily, that he had dropped out of 
the groove of his social sphere in England 
beyond all possibility of retrieval. His 
friends and relations had ceased to take 
any particular interest in his welfare; certainly 
they did not wish him back. Therefore it 
followed that he was wasting the best years 
of his life, and that it was his obvious duty 
to make the most of his remaining chance nf 

\Vhen a man resorts for self-conviction to 
that insidious argument about the best years 
of his life, there is small doubt as to the 
upshot. Freddy Burton convinced himself 
that marriage with Kitty Westley constituted 
his remaining chance of happiness, and there 
was nothing more to be said, 

Not that he deluded himself in the least. 
He was perfectly avyare that all his social 
ac|^M4\^&tW^fc|uMKlHfcffW|i^ the snatch as 



a hopeless mesalliance^ for which the penalty 
was sentence of ostracism. But he had 
arrived at the stage where he simply did not 
Matters moved apace, the plunge once 
taken ; and, indeed, there was no reason for 
delay. The units of the English colony 
received the news of their expressman's 
engagement with varying degrees of surprise, 
and conveyed their congratulations with 
measure of warmth in proportion. 

Freddy Burton took them very quietly ; 
he was not a demonstrative man. 

But he busied himself with repairs and 
improvements to the log cabin, and was very 
nearly satisfied with the result. At least it 
was comfortably habitable, and it was weather- 

A month afterwards the marriage was 
solemnized, in presence of a Notary Public, 
at the registry office in Melonville. And the 
mud-coloured horse relaxed his muscles, in 
the unwonted leisure of a livery stable, while 
bride and bridegroom spent a golden week in 
a tiny, picturesque hotel which snuggles, un- 
pretentiously secluded, on a shady slope above 
the Indian River. 

Then they settled down to the new-born 
happiness of married life in the glorified log- 
cabin. But the murderous scowl on Shanghai's 
face grew blacker day by day. 

To Freddy Burton and his laughing little 
bride the world held thereafter no such 
elements of discord as drunken father or 
scowling Chinaman. For them, the concen- 
trated happiness of all creation long centred 
in four walls of varnished pine. Surely, in 
the wide world's history, was never marriage 
more propitious. 

A woman's subtle intuitions, grafted upon 
the happy nature of a child, proceeded to 
develop the little cracker girl, against the 
moss-grown canons of tradition and of caste, 
into the ideal mate for Freddy Burton. She 
was so quick to note, so eager to learn, so 
jealous to justify her hero's choice, that she 
seemed to have drawn on, with her first pair 
of shoes and stockings, a garment of new 

Perhaps the mud-coloured horse resented 
the change a little, as the strain of hurried 
homeward journeys began to tax his sinews. 
Certainly the expressman's patrons had cause 
to bless their carrier's punctuality. 

For the smoke of his cabin chimney called 
him from afar ; the welcome of the little 
watcher on the veranda thrilled him ever, 
with a new sense of wonder at the gift 
vouchsafed him of the gods ; and he came 

to stable and to feed his weary accomplice in 
a very fever of impatience. 

As he entered, he never ceased to wonder 
at the orderly neatness of his spotless home ; 
at the white cloth, garnished with fresh- 
gathered wild flowers from the woods; at 
that mystery of sweet companionship which 
sometimes comes, foretaste of Paradise, into 
the lives of lonely men. 

I jtter, relapsing to conditions less ethereal, 
he helped to clear away the supper and to 
wash the dishes ; smoking his evening pipe 
while he sipped his whisky and chatted of 
the doings of the day. Each item of them 
seemed to hold new interest. It was always 
a fresh pleasure to retail the minor happen- 
ings of Melonville ; to listen to his little wife's 
recital of experiences ; the tale of eggs her 
hens had laid ; the intrusion of a stranger 
pig, unnoticed, through the fence gap; the 
new shoots showing on the wistaria; the 
hundred little intimate confidences that filled 
their happy world. 

Thus, all unreckoned, three swift months 
slipped by. Then, in the fourth, the cruel 
shadow fell. 

It was an autumn evening, and a load, 
unusually heavy, had delayed the express. 
The woods seemed weird and lonely, as the 
short twilight dee|>ened into night, under the 
pale gleam of a crescent moon. 

On either side of the road a mighty tract of 
grass land lay scorched and blackened, fired 
by the sparks from a passing locomotive 
miles away. The pungent scent of smoulder- 
ing timber hung heavy on the air. Here 
and there a tiny tongue of flame flickered 
high overhead, where the hungry forest fire 
had licked up the resin of some scarred pine- 

Freddy Burton, strolling homewards beside 
his weary beast, kicked against something in 
the sandy track and, stooping, picked up a 
cast horseshoe. It was nearly new — indiffer- 
ently affixed, he decided ; and he slipped it 
into his pocket with a smile. Kitty cherished 
a hundred happy little superstitions, and 
horseshoes stand for luck the whole world 

It took but a few minutes to stable the 
raw-boned horse that night, when his owner 
realized, for the first time, no welcoming 
watcher on the porch. But when he reached 
the cabin and found the sitting-room in 
darkness, a sudden fear that some accident 
had befallen caused his hands to tremble so 
that he had difficulty in lighting the lamp. 
He steadied his voice carefully as he turned 
to the inner roorrj, calling her by name, and 

7 6 


he sickened at the unanswering silence. 
Chilled with a formless foreboding, he 
pushed open the door and stood, one 
hideous moment, on the threshold. 

There, in the flickering lamp-light, lay his 
girl-wife, stiff and cold, upon her bed, beyond 
all reach of human voice or help of human 
hands. The film of death had glazed her 
eyes, upturned in agony of piteous terror, 
and above the rounded softness of her neck 
there gaped a ghastly wound. 

As in a lightning flash each detail photo- 
graphed itself, for all time, on his brain. 
And then there fell that numbing horror 
which kindly Nature sometimes sends to lull 
a shock beyond the power of man to bear. 

Not till the faint dawn showed through the 
uncurtained window did he know that he had 
sat all night at her bedside, with his dead 
wife's hand clasped close between his own, 
and a mocking horseshoe gleaming on the 
crimsoned pillow. 

But on the haggard, vacant face that stared 
him back from the mirror were stamped 
indelibly the lines that marked the minutes 
of his awful vigil. 

Even in that lawless land the tragedy was 
theme for more than nine days' wonder. The 
inquest threw no light at all upon the per- 
petrator of the brutal outrage. 

Old man Westley, shocked into sobriety, 
sobbed incoherent answers to his questioners. 
Burton himself, with vacant eyes and im- 
passive persistence, reiterated his formula 
time and time again. His wife had never, to 
his knowledge, made an enemy in her life. 
He had no clue to offer, no theory to suggest. 
So he swore. 

The jury brought in a verdict of murder, 
in the first degree, against some person or 
persons unknown, and Kitty Burton was laid 
to rest in the English cemetery at Melonville. 

Then, to the surprise of those who knew 
him best, the man took up, where he had 
dropped it, the routine of his daily round. 

And so, three days in every week, there 
plies over the seven sandy miles which 
separate the town of Melonville from the 
English colony on Lake Topekah a heavy- 
laden vehicle known as the Melonville 

But the driver was a changed man, a 
brooding, solitary hermit, with vacant eyes 
and lips that muttered as he went. And he 
did strange things. 

Once he idled away a working morning in 
a shoeing forge, beguiling the lazy blacksmith 
into argument. But when the man brought 

the matter to a crisis, vowing that the subject 
of their discussion had been fitted by himself 
to a white-legged sorrel in Martin's stable, 
who cast it the next day, Burton laughed 
him to scorn. The mud-coloured horse, he 
swore, had dropped it only yesterday. 

Then he fraternized with a good-for-nothing 
helper at Martin's, inquiring minutely as to 
the stamina and possible endurance of his 
charges. At hazard he selected a white- 
legged sorrel, and insisted on verifying the 
tale of its engagements for a month. He 
pored over the order-book, seeking chapter 
and verse for every statement. But when he 
found that the sorrel had been hired out to 
Sol Shannon, and the helper recollected that 
the horse had lost a shoe upon its journey, his 
interest flagged. He presented his garrulous 
informant with a bottle of whisky, and told 
him he was talking nonsense. 

Once he stopped a nigger on the side-walk 
and offered him five dollars for the coat upon 
his back. The price was readily accepted, 
and the man, a discharged waiter, explained 
that the garment had been presented to him 
by his late employer. 

Impassively methodical, Burton drove 
home to the lone log-cabin and pieced 
together the clues which he had gathered. 
Behind the vacant eyes his busy brain was 
all alert. 

The sum of circumstantial evidence em- 
braced four counts. 

First, there was Shanghai's threat to the 
dead girl that he would cut her throat him- 
self before she should marry another man. 

Second, there was a horseshoe, found 
within three hundred yards of his fence-rail, 
sworn to by the smith who forged it as 
belonging to a white-legged sorrel horse. 

Third, there was Martin's order book to 
prove that on*the day of the murder the 
sorrel had been driven by Shanghai, and 
Martin's helper to swear that the horse came 
home with three shoes only. 

Fourth, there was a coat which the 
restaurant-keeper had presented to a dis- 
charged waiter, from which one button and 
a tiny strip of cloth had been torn away. 
That button had been found tight-clenched 
in the murdered woman's hand, and had lain 
in the widower's pocket when he perjured 
himself in open court. 

Such was the case for the prosecution, and 
no one was present to defend. It remained 
merely to pass sentence. 

The expressman laid*aside the items of his 
evidence, and sat down to pore, for the 
fiftieth time, over a back number of an 



English illustrated paper. There was a 
picture there that fascinated him. 

It depicted a common form of Chinese 
torture, and, as he gazed, his vacant eyes 
began to gleam. 

The victim was represented, bare-headed, 
buried to the chin in sand ; parched, starved, 
and helpless in the burning sun. The agony 
of approaching death was in his face. 

The expression was one which Shanghai 
might be made to simulate. 

Far into the night sat Burton, gloating 
on the pictured horror— slowly maturing the 
scheme of his revenge. In the morning he 
rose and went upon his dreamy round, vacant 
and listless as before. 

People began to whisper that the shock 
had turned his brain. But the mind of the 
lonely man, brooding ever on one topic, was 
strangely active underneath the mask. 

Days grew to weeks, and weeks slipped 
into months, while the memory of the tragedy 
faded from men's minds. And the express- 
man's only confidant was a good-for-nothing 
helper in Martin's livery stable. 

Incessantly he plied the man with questions, 
learning of every buggy ordered out, speculat- 
ing upon the hirer's probable destination. 
His ally, primed with whisky, came to appre- 
ciate the harmless mania, and to respond with 
zeal. And, finally, the patient quest bore fruit. 

At twilight one Sunday evening the mud- 
coloured horse was rudely awakened from his 
doze. Grunting his disapproval, he found 
himsdf harnessed and at bay between the 
wagon-shafts before he had time to enter 
protest against the unwonted indignity. 

The load was but a light one. It com- 
prised a spade and shovel, an axe, some 
empty corn - sacks, and several lengths of 
strong new cord. 

Burton took the reins, and a purposeful 
light was in his eyes as he struck out into the 
pine woods. Nearly three miles he drove 
before he halted, in one of the densest 
thickets bordering on the Florida Extension . 
Railroad track. There he tied up his horse 
to the trunk of a live oak, and took both 
spade and shovel from the wagon. 

Then the deep silence of the pine woods 
received him, and closed him in. 

It was a long hour before he re f urned, 
streaming with perspiration and breathing 
hard. He climbed into the wagon and 
drove off once more, shaping his course 
across country, and travelled eastwards a 

Once more he tied his horse, and pro- 
ceeded, axe in hand, a hundred yards on 

foot. This time he emerged upon the 
sandy road that runs, due north and south, 
from Melonville to Tampa* Five minutes' 
deliberation sufficed him. He selected a 
sturdy pine sapling and deftly felled it, 
dropping it at right angles across the fairway. 
Then he retired to a place of concealment, 
and set himself deliberately to await the 
thing which should befall. 

The moon climbed up above the pine 
trees, framed in a bank of clouds, and the 
night was very still. Scarcely a breath of 
air stirred among the branches overhead as 
his long watch drew out. But he waited 
quite patiently and made no movement, 
though every nerve was tense and every 
sense alert. 

It was after nine o'clock before a buggy, 
occupied by a single traveller, crept slowly 
into view. Burton crouched closer in his 
hiding-place, recognizing his victim from afar. 

Within some twenty yards of the un- 
expected obstacle Sol Shannon pulled up 
his weary horse and reconnoitred the 
obstruction. So common an incident as a 
pine tree fallen across the path brought him 
no hint of warning, and his first impulse was 
to pull out into the scrub and so to circum- 
vent it. 

But the spot was chosen craftily. A thick, 
impenetrable growth on either hand necessi- 
tated the bodily removal of the sapling. 
With a muttered imprecation, he descended 
from his buggy to effect it. 

He had-stooped over the lighter end and 
fairly grasped it with both hands when a grip 
of iron closed around his throat. 

Then, with a gasp of terror, Sol Shannon 
faced about to grapple his assailant. One 
ghastly moment he saw the glare of murder 
in a madman's eyes ; the next a superhuman 
strength had stifled him to unconscious 

It was the jolting of the wagon that 
brought back his scattered faculties, and the 
plight in which he found himself filled him 
with the sickening fear of present death. 
Hand and foot he was firmly bound and 
pinioned, and a strong, coarse sack further 
confined his fettered limbs, its mouth tied 
tightly about his neck. His captor had 
neglected no precaution, even to the gag 
which precluded audible speech or attempted 
outcry. Powerless, speechless, and helpless 
as a baby, he" lay and trembled while the 
wagon travelled slowly back upon its tracks. 

The driver spoke no word. When he 
halted he tied the horse's head to the trunk 

of a lifflvefeih Wmn$ 1ifted his heav y 



burden in his arms. Nothing but the mute 
terror in the doomed man's eyes protested. 
Burton staggered forward with his load, 
through the thicket fringing the railroad 
track, out into the open. 

There, in the centre of the permanent way, 
between the cross-ties, yawned a fresh dug 
pit, nearly five feet in depth. Into that 
gloomy hole Burton carefully lowered his 

victim. Only the head and neck protruded, 
a foot above the level of the road bed. 

The expressman returned to the wagon for 
his tools, and set about the completion of his 
task. Stripping off his coat and rolling his 
shirt-sleeves to the elbow, he shovelled in the 
loose sand, spadeful by spadeful ; packing it 
closer patting ir down, treading it smooth and 
even. He worked swiftly and in silence, 



^l^L, swirrLv m*m 



breathing hard. Finally he collected the 
surplus into an empty sack, carried it away, 
and dumped it out of sight in the thicket. 

Not until he had completed the work to 
his satisfaction, leaving the road-bed smooth 
as he had found it, save for the protrusion of 
that gruesome head, did Burton pause. The 
perspiration poured from his face and neck, 
and his arms and shoulders ached stiffly with 
the unusual exertion. But he looked upon 
his finished task as an artist looks upon the 
picture that has grown beneath his fingers to 
the complete ideal. It was more perfect than 
he had even dared to hope. 

The sallow face, the wild, hopeless terror 
in the staring eyes, the quivering features — 
everything was there as in the model he had 
copied. Best of all, it lived. Only the gag 
in the twitching mouth annoyed the artist a 
little. He listened with keen pleasure to the 
gurgling noises in the doomed man's throat, 
but he dared not take the chances of a full- 
mouthed scream for help. 

Leisurely deliberate, he removed to his 
wagon the utensils of his labour, and 
bestowed his shovel and his empty sacks 
within it. He donned his coat, and drew the 
wagon off yet another hundred yards into 
the darker shelter of the trees. Then he 
returned to his victim's grave and for the first 
time he spoke. 

A wild light glowed behind his eyes now, 
and his voice quivered with repressed excite- 

" You murdering coward ! " he said. " I've 
brought you here to die. Haven't you often 
wondered how I could wait so long ? I might 
have given evidence that they'd have hanged 
you on. I might have shot you in your cafe, 
or knifed you in the street. I might have 
strangled you before to-day with my own 
hands. But I waited, and I'll tell you why. 

4 * I've seen the terror of an awful death in 
a murdered woman's eyes. I'll see it in a 
living man's to-night. An eye for an eye ; 
the old Jew law, Shanghai ! We've never 
framed a better since the world began. 

" Mark you how well I've laid my plan 
and picked my place. A quarter of a mile 
up there, above us, lies the one steep pitch 
on all this level line ; below it the track 
curves sharply round, and no one can tell 
what lies beyond the bend. At midnight, 
fifty miles an hour, the Tampa mail runs 

41 You'll see her flaring head light as she 
swings the bend ; you'll hear the whistle of 
the engine as she shrieks your last good 
night And the grinning teeth Qf the cow- 

catcher spread wide and low, the height of a 
man's head above the cross-ties. Fifty miles 
an hour she'll come, Shanghai ; and nothing 
on God's green earth can save you then ! " 

He paused on a sudden ; threw back his 
head and laughed — peal after peal of wild, 
weird laughter — till it seemed that he would 
never stop. In the solitude of the pine woods 
the sound struck a strange, unreal note. 
Peal after j>eal, till the tears started to his 
burning eyes, and, with a choking sob, he 
ceased as suddenly as he began. 

From behind the banking clouds the silver 
circle of the moon swam slowly out into the 
blue. He pointed upwards with a shaking 

" The curtain's up, Shanghai ! " he shouted. 
"The limelight's on the stage! Vengeance 
is mine at last ! At last ! " 

His voice broke and failed, the wild light 
faded from his eyes, and he staggered like a 
drunken man, pressing a hand against his 
throbbing head. 

" An eye for an eye — the old Jew law," he 
muttered, as he turned away. 

And the pinioned victim in the pit knew 
that his hour had come. 

Silence fell upon the pine woods, and the 
moon shone fair and full upon the scene of 
impending tragedy. 

Framed between two lines of gleaming 
metals, midway to an inch between the 
cross-ties, a ghastly yellow face stood out a 
foot above the levelled sand, with straining 
eyeballs fixed upon the curve that closed 
their view and twitching jaws that fought in 
vain against their gagging bondage. Fifty 
yards above, in the angle of the track, where 
a stunted oak tree commanded an unbroken 
view on either side, Burton sat crouched in 
the crook of a lower branch. 

And twenty miles away, with the signals 
in her favour and an open track ahead, the 
racing Tampa mail came speeding south. 

Fifteen minutes passed before the express- 
man, listening intently, caught a faint sound 
— so faint as to be scarcely distinguishable. 
Then on the rising breeze it came again, still 
faint, but unmistakable. It was the far-off 
rumble of the coming train. 

Burton's eyes gleamed wild again. It was 
the first note of the overture. The orchestra 
was striking up; the drama was about to 

Shanghai had heard it too ; and the con- 
vulsive efforts, which for a time he had 
abandoned, recommenced. In his frantic 
struggles the sweat poured down his hollow 
cheeks, half blinding the bloodshot eyes, and 




the watcher saw the beaten sand heave and 
shudder around the straining muscles of his 
yellow neck. Burton laughed, exultant. 

The crooked branch of the stunted oak 
crackled and snapped, but the man who 
clung there never noted- Whatever happened 
now, he must watch his victim's face. 

The thing he turned to gaze upon was 
scarcely human. Contorted beyond recog- 
nition, it had become a mere sweating mask 
of abject terror, Rigid with the appalling 
horror of his coming doom, the man had 
ceased to move ; the sightless eyeballs glared 
vacantly into space. 

The snapped branch dropped from under 
Burton's feet, anci leit him swinging by his 

haiKh ' Dig.lize<J by GoOgfe 

Nearer and nearer came the crisis ; twenty 
yards — fifteen — ten — ! 

The strain increased beyond the watcher's 
power to bear, and his nerveless hands 
relaxed their grip. With a deafening shriek 
the Tampa mail raced past, and he dropped 
gently to the ground. 

Three days in every week, over the seven 
sandy miles which separate the town of 
Melonville from the English colony on I^ake 
Topekah, there plies a heavy-laden vehicle, 
drawn by a raw-boned, mud-coloured horse. 

And the driver is a silent, stern-faced man 
with snow white hair, and wistful eyes that 
peer along the lonely road, seeking a 
passenger who uevier comes. 



{Accompanying this article are many unpublished sketches and cartoons by the 
famous caricaturist of " Vanity Fair/* and now of the "World/') 

^1 NCE upon a 
time there was 
a famous cari- 
caturist who 
professed to 

teach the art of caricature. 

Of course, none of the 

pupils learnt it, because 

caricature cannot be 

taught .1 doubt if it has 

ever even been acquired ; 

it is an innate gift. As a 

schoolboy at Eton I could 

no more help doing carica- 
tures of my school -fellows 

and my masters than 1 

could have resisted the 

seduction of cream tarts. 

It was in the blood, as I 

came of a long line of 

artistic ancestry (counting 

four Royal Academicians 

among them) on both sides 

of the house. In due time 

a caricature of mine of 

Professor Owen, entitled 

*' Old Bones," came under 

the notice of an old family friend, Sir John 

Everett M ilia is, and with that drawing my 

professional career as a caricaturist for Vanity 

Fair began. It may interest my present readers, 

by the by, to see my first sketch of that 

caricature of Owen, which 

has never yet been pub- 
lished, and so I include 

it herewith. 

One thing is certain : in 

order to obtain a successful 

result very careful observa- 

tion is necessary, whether 

drawing from Nature or 

memory. In studying a sub- 
ject, weakness or strength 

of character should be 

grasped first ; but almost 

equally important is to 

note every 4 detail of dress 

— the shape and pitch of 

a hat, for instance — for 

ness, and sometimes ner- 
vousness, shows itself in 
various ways. The fact is 
that few men know what 
they appear to be toothers. 
I have known a peer ex- 
press an objection to being 
drawn with spats, because 
he did not consider they 
looked well in a picture, 
although he always wore 
them. Another, who had 
been splendidly carica- 
tured by Pellegrini, said 
to me ; M I get the shivers 
when I am in the room 
with that man, ever since 
he so grossly libelled me. 
If there is one thing upon 
which I pride myself it is 
my physique, and he has 
made me bent and stoop- 
ing." Andyet his lordship's 
stoop was the first thing 
one noticed about him. 

When the late Lord 
Lytton stood to me I was 
under the disadvantage of not having seen 
him before. He was most kind and willing 
to help me, but he struck an attitude that L 
knew was unnatural to him. He posed as 
though sitting to a sculptor for a statue. 
I had the privilege of 
knowing his father, the 
first Lord Lytton, There 
was a considerable resem- 
blance l>etween father and 
son ; and, although the 
former was a much taller 
man, there was enough to 
tell me that this attitude 
was a false one. Feeling 
this, I waited for an oppor- 
tunity and at last seized 
it. He politely aided 
me in finding my hat, 
which I had placed in 
a corner of the room ; 
while doing this he threw 

t , «idW*lJ > t-siR RicHAftipLjawtffiTV ^UlP^r^^ tesman,ike 
, „„„uki^ ^r,h r™ " w* » ^J2£!tfJL! T *™W0/ IJ WW his head, 

iff Jttrmuttion vf " Vanity Fair 

these are essential to the 

caricature. Self-conscious- An unpublished sketch For tl Spy's " lint cum{uk! ' 

Vol, xxx ix. — 11. 



raised his shoulders, 
and, in a word, was 
himself. In those 
few seconds he was 
safely in my head, 
and I hastened to 
my studio to place 
this impression on 
paper, so that this 
so-called sitting was 
merely an oppor- 
tunity for carefully 
considering my 

I may add that 
I have been told 
that my drawing, 
here reproduced, of 
the author of 
u Rienzi " was the 
best likeness which 
was ever made of 
him, because it 
rendered his atti- 
tude and expres- 
sion and everyday 
It is bad taste, 
I think, to lay too 
much stress on 
physical defects, 
which, although 

they must appear in the picture, should be 
suggested as delicately as possible* I seldom 
use a photograph in this particular kind of 
work, for it is apt to destroy originality of 
idea. However, it may sometimes be useful 
as a reference* By this I mean that when 
drawing a man in profile a full -face photo- 
graph may possibly recall him to your mind, 
while a profile one miiiht slavishly copy. 
When the intention of the artist is to commit 
his subject to memory it is well to see him 
engrossed in business, or, perhaps, in a 
heated discussion upon a subject that he 
thinks he understands. 

Some people, I haw f-mrul, arc wry 
sensitive about their physical peculiarities. 
Writing of that remiii Is me of an ok) 
gentleman of very considerable position in 
the world, who came to my studio one day 
many years ago. He had a very red nose, 
and as he was leaving he observed, rather 
shyly : — 

"I hope, Mr. Ward, you won't make my 
nose as red as it is; at all events, perhaps 
you won't increase the redness. It is an 
unfortunate fact that my grandfather and my 
father, besides myself, had red noses, but 


they were really most temperate. As 
a matter of fact, I'm a total abstainer 
myself, too," It was really touching, 
and I felt compelled to leave some of 
the colour out of his nose. 

But all men are not like that I re- 
member going to lunch with a very rich 
individual for the purpose of studying 
him, He would insist on looking at 
some rough notes 1 had made, and the 
sight of them made him greatly incensed. 

*' Look here/' he exclaimed. "I may 
be shortish, and I may be inclined to be 
stout, but I'm not a fat dumpling figure 
like that. If you want to please me and 
my friends " (which, of course, I did not 
wish to do) "you will make me tall. 
You see, it will be funny to make me 
tall, because it will he the exact opposite 
to what I am!" Such was the man's 
idea of caricature. 

Well do I remember following the 
late Lord Salisbury, being in his bulk 
and burliness and obvious sagacity the 
very prototype of John Bull. This is one 
of the sketches I made of him for my 
subsequent cartoon. 





My method of work depends upon the 
opportunities I manage to get of studying the 
subject, I prefer, when it is possible, to take 
my victim unawares. I have found I ran 
catch his little peculiarities of manner and 
motion better than if I have sittings. But 
some people are unsusceptible of caricature 
without very long study; there is nothing 
distinctive enough about them to emphasize, 
What I do when I 
catch my man alive, 
so to speak, is to 
jot down, on paper 
or mentally, in a few 
lines> my general 
impressions of his 
salient points. Then, 
after a while, I try 
to recall the effect 
produced by the 
man on my mind. 
Sometimes a face 
vanishes from my 
mind altogether, 
and do what I will 
to recall it I fail, 
until a time comes 
when suddenly it 
flashes quite vividly 
across me. 

As to my funniest 
caricature, I have 
some hesitation in 
saying; but my 
friends at the time 
agreed that my cari- 
cature of Anthony 
Troll ope is my best 
in this respect, I 
hasten to express a 
hope that this sketch 
which 1 have ex- 
humed from my 
portfolios will not 
give pain to the 
present admirers of 

I like best to stalk 
my man, to walk 
side by side with 
him — as> for in- 
stance, I did one 
day across the Park with Dean Bradley, I 
noticed everything about him — the rosette in 
his hat, the number of decanal buttons upon 
his sleeve. I flew home and dotted down my 
impression of him. 

Cardinal Newman was a difficulty. A 

Considered ' 

friend asked me purposely down to stay in 
Birmingham, At Euston Station, on my way, 
whom should I see upon the platform but 
the old Cardinal himself! He went into the 
refreshment-room ; I did the same. He 
ordered a plate of soup ; I followed suit* 
He sat down at a small table ; I took a seat 
opposite to him and got a good stare. But 
not content, as I wanted to see him in con- 
versation, I went 
down to Birming- 
ham, and next day 
called at the Ora- 
tory and asked to 
see the "Father," 
To my alarm a 
priest suddenly 
came forward, and 
—"Did 1 wish to 
consult his Emi- 
nence? If so, he 
would try to procure 
me an audience I " 
Here was ad i lemma, 
and no mistake. I 
could not say I had 
come to caricature 
the old gentleman. 
The priest left me 
to make inquiries, 
and I seized the 
opportunity and 
fled* I wonder if 
they counted the 
spoons afterwards? 
But I was fortu- 
nate with Dora 
Carlos, the Spanish 
Pretender, He not 
only consented to 
sit to me, but ? as 
a great favour, to 
lend me his price- 
less collar of the 
Order of the Golden 
Fleece, with strict 
injunctions to take 
the utmost care of 
it, which I faithfully 
promised to do, I 
duly placed it on a 
model, who, in re- 
moving it, to my 
horror let it fall and broke it in two places. 
Almost in despair, I hurried to Hunt and 
Roskell, who greatly relieved me by saying 
they could restore it so that the fracture would 

Spy'** funniest *ketcb — now first published. 




ift'SfwCands oVS 

8 4 



Carlos as good as ever, with many thanks for 
his kindness and condescension. 

It is curious how people try to impress 
my supposed mistakes upon me, There was 
a man whose . eyes were almost invisible 
owing to heavy eyelids. The lashes were 
heavily touched up, too. Of course, I drew 
him as he usually appeared, but he was at 
pains to convince me that I was in the wrong. 
He faced me and actually held his eyelids 
apart to prove to me what a fine, wide-opened 
eye he had ! 

11 Have I pig's eyes? " he snorted, angrily- 
" Have I pig's eyes ? " 

One of my earliest subjects when doing 
professional caricatures was Lord Beacons- 
field, His private secretary w\\\fidu$ Achates^ 
Lord Rowton (or Montagu Corry, as he then 
was), was an old friend, and consequently I 
had facilities for making my studies of the 
statesman. I know of no published portrait 
which quite expresses his appearance and his 
sad later days except one of those I made 
then, and it afterwards attracted wide atten- 
tion. It is here reproduced. 

Some people are very amusing ; they come 
down to the studio and settle themselves as 
though they were at the photographer^ 
Then suddenly the sitter will explain : "Oh, 
1 forgot The photographer tells me this is 
my worst side ; I must turn you the other," 

But I remark that now he has given himself 
away he must just let me continue. Once I 
drew a man in profile. When he saw it he 
could not believe he had such an appearance, 
and paced my studio in great ^rief, trying to 
persuade me he did not resemble my work, 
turning himself about in every light to con- 
vince me. At last, in sheer pity, I had to 
draw his full face and keep back the profile 
from publication. 

A noted jockey, by the way, would not 
believe in his own nose as I drew it, but his 
friends believed it. Friends generally do* 

I need hardly say that the time I spent in 
transferring to paper the features of the 
famous American humorist, Mark Twain, is 
a pleasant memory. He resembled Mr, 
Kipling in this— that he insisted on walking 
up and down smoking and firing off some of 
his most amusing stories. He said, "It's no 
use making me a well-dressed man ; I am 
very careless about my clothes." I was told 
afterwards that I had made the author of 
"Soldiers Three" far too genial, but that is 
how he impressed me as a sitter, and it is 
only that aspect that I ever seek to portray. 

The Provost of Eton paid me a high 






Ori-qinal from - ■* - -3 




Btptrmiwim of ,H Vanity Fair." 

compliment once. I learned of the incident 
from a friend. The Provost was a little 
annoyed with his portrait, but he nevertheless 
had a copy of it hanging in his room* One 
day, when walking down the " High t " he 
stopped in front of a shop- window, and 
seeing his reflection in it, said : " Yes ; that 
Vanity Fair chap was right after all I do 
stand with my umbrella over my shoulder 
like that!" 

Once, whilst in pursuit of Dean Liddon 
at Oxford, I ascertained from the Dean's 
servant that he always took his daily "con- 
stitutional" after lunch, so a friend and I 
followed him on one of these occasions on 
the opposite side of the road for a consider- 
able distance, always keeping just on a level 
with him, until his suspicions were aroused, 
whereupon he suddenly turned and politely 
raised his hat to me ; and taking this, as it 
was doubtless meant, for a hint to dis- 
continue dogging his footsteps, I returned 
his salutation and made my way back to 
my hotel, there to produce the result of my 
interrupted "stalking/' which, nevertheless, 
was not a failure, being in fact, I was told* 
quite the reverse. 

Vanity is surely depicted in the following 
story of a certain nohle lord (who must be 
nameless) who called upon me at my studio 

with a view to my putting him 
m f'rtttr/y fair, 1 icing very busy 
at the time I had to suggest 
his postponing his appointment 
till later on* whereupon he took 
great offence and refused to 
come again. So, determined 
he should not escape me, I 
took the opportunity at an 
evening party of studying him 
thoroughly. He was so chagrined 
when his cartoon appeared that 
he dyed his hair from white to 
a ruddy brown, possibly that 
he should not be recognized ! 

On another occasion Brad- 
laugh called upon me at the 
request of Vanity Fair f and 
quickly came to the point re- 
garding the attitude he should 
assume for a sitting by asking 
me if he should "stand on his 
head or his heels." 

I have often been asked 
which have been my most 
successful drawings. I have no 
hesitation in saying that amongst 
the legal fraternity I consider 
I reached my high- water mark 
in Sir H, Cozens-Hardy, K.C, although a study 
I madu of Mr. Rufus Isaacs was said to be 




In. 'Jr. P6 


Considered by " Spy" to be bU most successful drawing. 




11 far better than any 
of his photographs," 
if that is commen- 
dation. I was never 
puzzled about the 
facial lineaments of 
Mr, Lloyd George, 
although many 
painters and other 
limners still appear 
to be. He has grown 
greyer than when I 
made the accom- 
panying caricature, 
but the lines in his 
face, the semi- 
h u mor ous expr ess i on 
and gesture, are as 
represented there. 
My portrait of Mr* 
Asquith, over which 
I took a lot of trouble 
m the lobby of the 
House of Commons, 
I remember rather 
surprised people who 
had only known his 
features from photo- 
graphs. I made many 
studies for this be- 
fore I made one 

B)f ptrminitm of " Vajtitw Fair." 

which suited me. It was objected 
to at the time that Mr. Darling, 
K.C, was far too young and 
debonair for a judge, and my 
caricature of him confirmed this 
popular opinion. But time has 
demonstrated his complete fitness 
for the judicial Bench, 

Occasionally I have been de- 
tected in the act of l( stalking" 
my victim. Mr, John Burns 
twigged me while I was studying 
him in the lobby of the House 
of Commons, I was flattering 
myself that he was unconscious 
of my intentions, when of a 
sudden he addressed me. 

u Excuse me, Mr. Ward/ 1 he 
said, "but I know what you're 
after ! n 

However, in this case all was 
well, and the member for Batter- 
sea afforded me assistance to 
complete the picture* 

Perhaps my most comical 
"stalk" was one in which I was 
assisted by Mr. Gibson Bowles. 

1 F 

J Original from 




The Rev* Arthur Tooth was the " man of the 
moment." The celebrated ritualist was in 
durance vile in Holloway Castle at the par- 

said Mr 
we must 
me see. 

" moment " in 
" Awkward," 

Bowles; "but 
have him, Let 
I am the secre- 
tary of the Persian Relief 
Fund. Come along, 
Ward ! * For the life of 
me I couldn't see the 
connection between the 
Persian Relief Fund and 
the contumacious priest. 
But Mr. Bowles made 
the Holloway Castle 
myrmidons s«e it VVe 
got through ; and I cari- 
catured the Rev, Arthur 
Tooth as he raged behind 
the bars 3 

I often travel in the 
sa me rai 1 way com pa rt- 
ment as a subject, watch 
ing him all the while 
quite unknown to him- 
self. Once I went down 
to a country place in search of a man, and 
finding him absent returned to town, and dis- 
covered him at the railway station- Seizing 
the opportunity, I 
entered his carriage 
and travelled alt the 
way back home with 
htm. Thus it is to 
be a conscientious 
caricaturist ! 

I have been very, 
very near libel actions, 
and one man actually 
threatened me with 
a warm article in a 
newspaper in return 
for a caricature I had 
done of him. Of 
course, I'm not uni 
versally beloved, I 
remember caricatur- 
ing a certain Army 
officer. He had 
enormous ears, and 
in other respects re- 
sembled the conven 
t ional low - comedy 
colonel— very dapper, 
and with very short 
legs. He came to 
the studio, and there 

From an Unpublished Sketch. 

prefaced the sitting with the remark that he 
didn't mind caricatures one bit. But he 
altered his tune when I had finished with him. 

lt Oh, no, no ! JJ he ex- 
claimed, on examining 
the portrait. "I didn't 
come here to be made a 
pygmy of, I don T t mind 
genuine caricature, but, 
hang it 1 this is an insult 
to the Queen's uniform. 
Look at the legs you've 
given me. They're much 
too short." 

Well, to pacify him I 
added a piece to each 
of his legs, but even then 
he wasn't satisfied. 

11 Can't you cut a bit 
off my ears?" he said. 

This last remark ex- 
hausted my patience, and 
I told him straight that 
I didn't invite him to my 
studio to teach me my 
profession. With this 
parting shot from me he 
vanished, and I afterwards 
learnt that the little man took the trouble to 
visit the lithographers and implore them to 
reduce the sue of his ears in the cartoon, 

I shall never forget 
when I was asked to 
do a caricature of Sir 
Roderick Murchison, 
stalk ing my prey about 
for some days, At 
last I was rewarded. I 
was in the neighbour- 
hood of St, James's 
Palace on a levee day 
w hen in y at t en t i o n was 
drawn to an extraordi- 
nary figure. I hardly 
needed the words t 
*'Sir Roderick Mur- 
chison, 11 to whip out 
my note - book and 
make the foregoing 
more or less accurate u 
presentment of what 
I saw. 

On another occa- 
sion, when I had 
acquitted myself of 
what I supposed to 
be a most successful 
MlCWl^e of Sir Wil- 
liam Broadbent, I was 




chagrined to learn that, 
although all his friends 
declared the likeness irre- 
sistible, Broad bent him- 
self was furious. Some 
of his fury he expended 
in a tetter to the Times, 
to the effect that the cari- 
cature was not published 
with his sanction, and 
that he considered it a 
gross libel. But amongst 
those who differed from 
him was the King (then 
Prince of Wales). I heard 
that at a luncheon at 
which the Prince was pre- 
sent several of the guests 
were rocking with laughter 
over this caricature, when 
in the midst of their 
mirth Sir William Broad- 
bent was announced, look- 
ing, said my informant, 
more like the caricature 
than ever, so that it 
required a very great 
effort of restraint not to 
excite his suspicions. 

Certainly one of my most successful pre- 
sentments is also one of my most recent— 
that of Mr. Gerald du 
Maurier j but then, per- 
haps, it might be urged 
that this talented young 
ai-tor lends himsrlf to 

The success of my 
Corney Grain and 
George Grossmith 
sketch arose quite acci- 
dentally. I had made 
one night a rough sketch 
of the two men— such 
a comical contrast in 
height and figure — and 
happened to show it 
to a man, who at once 
wished to buy it. Then 
Rudolph Lehmann 
came up to me and 
begged to be the pur- 
chaser, and I had to 
tell him it was already 
sold. That led to the 
suggestion that copies 
should be printed, and 
in the end I had a great 
number of subscribers, 

Hy permUtKmqf " Vanity Fnir," 

including the Prince of 
Wales, the Duke of Saxe- 
Coburg and Gotha, and 
a large number of well- 
known people, I got them 
all to put their autographs 
in an album, which you 
can understand is of great 
interest and value to me, 
Not only have people 
given me broad hints 
that they wished to 
have their caricatures 
published, but some 
who have favoured me 
with sittings actually 
have tried to bribe me 
to deal gently with 
them ! During the sit- 
ting the visitor broaches 
a pretty little scheme. 
He wants a serious por- 
trait, quite apart from 
the one for publication, 
and I am to have the 
honour of executing it, 
I am to please myself 
entirely with regard to 
it, am to choose my own 
style, my own treatment, even my own price ; 
and so on he goes, painting the scheme in very 
glowing colours. Curi- 
ously enough, that is all 
the painting it gets, 1 
never hear any more of 
it, andj of course, put 
no faith in any such 

The large majority of 
my sitters, I have found, 
are very kind in their 
appreciation of my 
work. I once drew a 
cartoon of Sir Henry 
Howorth, in which his 
well - known disregard 
of neatness of costume 
was made evident, I 
showed his tie working 
its way up the back of 
his head, and gave him 
an exceptionally bad 
hat. A few days after 
the cartoon had 
appeared I was calling 
on Vanity Fair to see 
Mr. Fry, the editor* 


^•U N ™ZoF*AN With " h<Im? " 



I asked, **Oh> the gentleman who had his 
picture in last week," was the answer. There- 
upon I said I would call again when the 
gentleman had departed ; but before I 
could go Mr. Fry called down and said I 
was to come up and be introduced to Sir 
Henry Howorth. The M + P,'s first words 
made me quite happy p for he thanked me 
warmly for the cartoon, which he said 
was declared by his family and hi^ friends to 
be exactly like him. 

Sometimes when "stalking" people I ha^e 
had very funny experiences, Dr Jowett 1 
only managed to get by assuming caj? and 
gown, and attending 
the learned man's 
lectures. The Dean 
of Windsor I well 
remember, was a 
44 terror." He was 
much addicted to 
wearing a certain 
venerable hat of most 
eccentric appearance. 
It had a wide, soft 
brim, and being, no 
doubt, very comfort* 
able, the Dean could 
never be persuaded 
to ^ive it up + I was 
in Windsor at the 
time, and, happening 
lo catch sight of him 
one morning in the 
identical hat, at once 
snatched the oppor- 
tunity for a sketch. 
The Dean was walk- 
ing in his garden, and 
had one side of the 
brim turned down to 
keep the wind off. 
It was quite large 
enough to be a 
shelter, and was con- 
stantly used as such* So I "took" him, and 
when that number of the paper came out all 
Windsor realized the joke and laughed at 
Mr, Dean's hat, which, I shortly afterwards 
heard, was seen no more. 

A caricaturist's work is far from being easy. 
Some people are much more difficult So 
sketch than others. 1 shall never forget how 
I failed time after time in getting a likeness 
to the late Sir Richard Quaiu, although his 
face might not appear to some to be a difficult 
one. Some of my sitters nrc very amusinp 
in their preferences. My good friend, Mr. 
Comyns Carr, I 
Vol. ***U--t2, 

A si u ii y ok lo r i j h o l 1 . u ton . 

remember, begged to be 

among the "porks" rather than among the 
u beefs, 51 as he denominated the two varieties 
of my cartoons. Well, I did my best 10 keep 
his face from being too florid, but all in 
vain, apparently, for when he greeted me at 
the club it was with these words, *' Oh, 
Lestie, I am among the * beefs/ after all ! n 
Of course, it was not always my fault, I must 
claim, that the faces in the cartoons used 
often to be so ruddy. It was the difficulty 
of the lithographer, who I gladly testify 
did his utmost to interpret my sketches 

It might easily be my boast that I had, if 
not a Royal collabo- 
rator! at least a Royal 
aider and abetter, in 
my portrait of the 
famous Lord Hough- 
ton. I was invited to 
a dinner-party for the 
purpose, having been 
previously warned 
that no likeness would 
do his lordship justice 
which was not taken 
at a certain stage of 
the evening* Various 
efforts were made to 
induce my victim to 
alter his expression, 
and at last, when he 
was gradually slipping 
down in his chair, I 
received a wink from 
Royalty, and I took 
my notes accordingly. 
Here is one of my 
studies and souvenirs 
of that memorable 
dinner- party. 

One of my sub- 
jects was Admiral Sir 
Regi nald M acdonald 
— " Rim," as he was 
popularlycalled -a bluff", hearty, good-natured 
sailor, but one, I fear, in whom a sense of 
humour was not very strongly developed. 
After my cartoon of him appeared he was 
furious. The idea of my treating him in that 
way!— what provocation had he given ?— et 
eel era. We parted in anger, at least on his 
side, and I never expected he would shake 
hands with me again. What, therefore, was 
my surprise, a week or two later, to have him 
walk into my studio in the most friendly 

"it appears, what 1 could not have believed 




possible, that there are 
two opinions on the 
matter," And with that 
he handed me a letter 
to the following effect : 
" Marlborough House, 
Thursday morning. My 
dear Rim, — Capital ! 
Splendid ! It's one of 
the best likenesses I have 
ever seen, I wonder 
if I could acquire the 
original?" The letter 
was signed ''Albert 
Edward." I offered to 
do one especially for the 
writer, as the original 
was out of my hands, 
and later I took it to 
Marlborough House. 
There I met the Duke 
of Edinburgh, who was 
kind enough to show 
me great favour and 
invite me to come on a 
six weeks' cruise with 
him. I went, and never 
enjoyed myself so much 
in my life; and although 
many things have been said about the late 
Duke, not always to his advantage, I can bear 
testimony lhat a more 
charming host and 
appreciative com- 
panion it has never 
been my lot to travel 
with. And all this 
sprang from a so- 
called*' unjust libel " ! 
About my carica- 
Cure of the sculptor, 
Sir Edgar Boehm, 
who was a great 
favourite of the late 
Queen Victoria, there 
is a story. I drew Sir 
Edgar contemplating 
a bust of John 
Rusk in. When the 
published drawing 
reached Windsor it 
was duly placed 
before Her Majesty, 
who, casting one 
glance at it, flushed 
with anger, and, tear- 
ing the production in two, threw it into the 
waste paper basket. Now, it never struck 
me that there was any facial resemblance 

My twminitwH of '* Vanitg /**hi\" 

between the author of 
" The Stones of Venice " 
and my gracious 
Sovereign, but the Queen 
evidently thought other- 
wise, especially as the 
sculptor's regard for his 
Royal patron was notori- 
ous, Naturally I was 
filled with consternation, 
A few* days later I heard 
that a member of the 
Royal suite had again 
shown the Boehm cari- 
cature to the Queen, 
asking Her Majesty if 
she didn't think it 
amusing. Then came 
the Maircissemtnt, and 
all ended happily; 
otherwise I fear I 
should have been in 
bad odour in exalted 

In conclusion, it might 
be of interest to some 
if I again record how 
1 came to adopt the 
nam de crayon a Spy," 
Gibson Bowks, w^ho was the 
Fair at the time I 
submitted my first 
cartoon, reque st ed 
me to invent some 
characteristic signa- 
ture consisting of 
three letters, I 
worked three initials 
into the form and 
semblance ofajester's 
bauble- But that 
did not please him. 
Thereupon he threw 
me over a dictionary* 
and asked me to 
choose a three- 
lettered word which 
would constitute an 
a p pr o pr i a te s ig na t ti r e. 
The book opened in 
the middle of the 
" S " pages* Near 
the top of the first 
column was the word 
"Spy," one of the 
meanings of which 
was given Gw gfttfll .observe." Whereupon I 

ado l ^Hfl V ||»6I W 1 ©? r#CftJG^ ci, ; name > and 
I have caricatured under it ever since. 

Mr. Thomas 
proprietor of 






coming to ihe 

surface and turn- 
| tqg on his back 
y to float, did so 

as meehanicalty 
as he battled to regain his 
breath. For the moment his 
senses were rather suspended 
than merely confused ; some- 
how he had struck his head 
in falling and was dazed as 
well as gasping. And the 
thing had happened so swiftly. 
One moment he had been 
standing by the bulwark, with 
eyes strained eagerly upon the dim 
line of shore unseen for near five 
years — thefe had come the sudden 
jerk and heave or the vessel, and the 
next he was struggling in the water* 

The sea was, luckily, smooth ; he floated 
easily. His scattered wits, returning, prompted 
him to strike out. Doing so, he reflected 
that he had been quite alone In that part 
of the deck, and his fall consequently 
unseen ; in all probability he would not 
be missed until the ship reached Bristol. 
Such chance as he had lay, of course, in 
the shore; but at best he was only a fair 
swimmer, and just now weak from the Indian 
musket-wound that still plagued his side* 
The rough surgery of the colony, that had 
probed for the bullet without finding it, and 
the murderous method of the time, that had 
drained more blood from the body already 
exhausted by its loss, had, in conjunction 
with a sharp fit of fever, so enfeebled him 
that he had been fain to have himself carried 
on board the vessel when she left the 
Potomac. The voyage had strengthened 
him ; but how weak he still remained he 
realized with every painful stroke. The line 
of the shore was no dearer, the breath was 
thick and short in his throat — it would he 

easier to stop the struggle — 

easier, easier- 

A cry rang over the water — 
loud, clear, inspiriting; the boat 
from which it came was sud- 
denly close upon him, and with 
all the powers he had ha fought 
desperately to keep himself 
afloat. It reached him ; the 
oars were shipped ; a figure bent 
over the gunwale— a woman. 
He saw the long hair blown out 
from the hood that covered her 
head, and the next moment had 
caught and held the rope she 
threw him. Kneeling, she bent farther 
— her grip was fast upon his arms; with a 
last effort he struggled to raise himself 
as she strained to raise him, was some- 
how over the side, and the boat, heeling 
dangerously for one crucial moment, 
righted safely. He strove to lift himself, to 
speak; felt a hot stab of pain in his side f 
followed by a rush of blood, and sank help- 
lessly down ; it seemed that his senses drifted 
away on the breath of « strange cry. 

It broke from the_girl as his head fell back 
and his face was thus turned to the light — a 
strange cry indeed. For a breathless instant 
she remained rigid, staring, then fell on her 
knees beside him. With little moans and 
wordless cries of tenderness and pity she 
tried to shift him to lie more easily, rolled 
her cloak into a pillow for his head, and, 
back in her seat, put both hands to her lips 
with a passionate gesture towards his senee- 
less figure, as though she flung him her whole 
soul in a kiss. Then she took the oars and 
rowed f her eyes upon him as he lay. Not 
until a last vigorous stroke sent the boat's 
keel grating in did she glance away, turning 
to scan the flat beach that stretched bare in 
the svn)fi^d|rwJkbtif^1|]pr.^tumn morning. 

Only one figure — a mAiis — moved upon it; 
she hailed him ; he shouted back, and came 




striding down the sand to the water's edge— 
a huge, handsome, bronzed young giant. 

H You go abroad early!" he said, bluntly. 
" I had a mind to doubt my eyes, finding 
your boat gone, and it scarce an hour past 
cockcrow. . , , Hey, what's here ? A dead 
man, sure, or should he." 

"Near drowned, but he lives," said the 
girl She moved; her position hid the 
unconscious figure. "'Twas by the merest 
chance I saw him — he was near sinking, and 
scarce got safe aboard when he swooned. 
Hurry, hurry ! He has a hurt in the side- 
he may die as he lies — die while I stand by. 
You had best fetch Peter Wright to help you 
carry him." 

" Carry him ? " He stared, frowning. 
" Where ? " 

" Home, Where else — 'tis the nearest 
house. And I saved him — who should tend 
him but I?" 

Kneeling again at Revelstoke's side and 
drawing away the cloak, she raised him on her 
arm and contrived to draw it about him so 
that his figure was almost hidden, When the 
feet of the two men were heard returning 
she dropped a fold across his face, and with 
deft cunning kept it tht*re while he was lifted 
and laid in the improvised stretcher of sail- 
cloth that they brought. 

Revelstoke, waking many hours later from 
the sleep that had followed his swoon, 
remained for a while blankly regarding 
the strange room in which he lay before 

memory, little by little, drifted back. Surely 
his hardly healed wound had broken as he 
fainted?— his hand touched fresh bandages 
— yes. A confused impression strengthened 
of two persons whispering as they tended 
him, of a cordial held to his lips. As this 
was done it .seemed that a sweep of fallen 
hair had brushed his cheek before a support- 
ing arm tenderly lowered his head upon the 

He was dizzy and giddy when he stood 
upon his feet ■ it was not without many halts 
that he contrived to dress, but it was done at 
last, even to the tying of his hair at a tiny 
mirror reflecting so lean, tanned, and gaunt a 
visage that he smiled grimly. Faith, most 
would need to look again and yet again 
before they recognized the Anthony Revel who 
had fled from Culloden and Cumberland in 
*45 ■ Opening the door, another door faced 
him across a narrow entry; in the room 
beyond the sparkle of a fire was bright; 
entering, he found it empty. He had hardly 
done so when, through an opposite door, a 
woman came in quickly. 

Not seeing him, she approached the 
window, The afternoon light flowed brightly 
over her ; without doubt the girl of the boat* 
Though he retained only a vague impression 
of a rich darkness of hair and eyes and a 
brunette splendour of colouring, he was 
instantly sure of her. She turned, gave a 
cry, and l$rbti«ftllftamo her. 

the saving of my life, madam," he began, and 



paused, wondering at what seemed wonder 
in her face. "Sure I do not mistake? It 
was you, was it not ? " 

" In the boat ? Yes, yes ; 'twas I." She 
advanced ; it seemed that a sob choked her 
throat ; her hands, fluttering strangely, pressed 
him gently back to a great, cushioned chair 
by the fire. " I thought you slept still ; I 
hoped it Pray sit ; your wound hath bled 
sorely, and, sure, you are too weak to stand, 
my lord!" 

"'My lord?' . . . Madam! You know 
me, then ? " Revelstoke cried. 

From the chair he stared at her. She 
drew back to the opposite side of the hearth. 

u Yes, my lord," she answered, simply. 

"Ha! And when?" 

"When you swooned I saw your face. 
Twas then." 

"So quickly?" His frown dissolved with 
his shrug and laugh ; all the gay, recklessly 
dauntless spirit that had done much to bring 
him to his present case danced in his eyes 
as he looked at her. " Faith," he said, 
coolly, "it would seem that I am scarce so 
changed as I believed. It was but a moment 
since I told myself that folk would be slow 
to recognize my lord Viscount Revelstoke in 
the bloodless, sun-dried, fever-bitten vision 
your glass showed me. And yet, half-drowned 

and senseless to boot, you " He stopped ; 

his eyes scanned her again. "Sure, madam, 
your memory does me so much honour I am 
shamed that mine should be so slack. With- 
out doubt I should know you, but I fear I 
do not . . . You stand in the shadow. 
If you would come nearer." . . . He rose; 
she advanced, with dropped eyelids ; he 
looked ; with a sudden ejaculation his hands 
were on her shoulders. "As I live," he 
cried, " you are Alison Peerless ! " 

She nodded, tremulous, eyes alight, cheeks 
glowing. His hands slipped down and clasped 
her hands. 

" Alison Peerless, my old tutor, Parson 
Peerless's daughter ! Faith, Alison, I am a 
graceless dog to dare forget you ! Your 
pardon, my child, and on my knees I kiss the 
brave hands that have held my life in 

Admiration, gratitude, kindly memory, 
affection were in his eyes as he stood erect. 
He released her hands, sinking back into the 

" When all is said, 'tis perhaps not so 
strange that I did not for the moment re- 
member you, Alison. It must be full six 
years since our last meeting, when you were 
but a halPgrown girl, and scarce sixteen." 

" Near seventeen. And indeed, my lord, 
I think you remembered quickly — for a 

He missed the halt in the words ; his eyes 
examined the room. 

" This is not the Parsonage, Alison, though 
there are some things here that I know — 
both clock and corner cupboard are old 
acquaintances, or I mistake." He glanced 
at her face. " I fear," he said, gently, " my 
old friend, your good father " 

He had died two years ago, the girl 
answered, quietly. Yes, she lived here with 
her uncle, Silas Batchford — he would re- 
member Silas Batchford, captain and owner 
of the trading - barque Good Fortune f He 
had wished rather to make a home for her 
in Barnstaple ; but all her life had been 
passed near to Queston, and 

The word brought Revelstoke upon his feet 

" Queston ? " he cried. " Why, is it then 
so near ? " 

" Surely, my lord. Tis close. From the 
window " 

"The window?" He was at it in an 
eager stride, forgetful of wound and weakness. 
" Faith, yes— there flies the old flag from the 
turret ! Then my father is there ? Yes. 
And my brother ? All ? And all well ? 
Ah ! . . . Alison, did you know how many 
of my dreams have been of the old house 
and the woods you might have looked to find 
my ghost haunting them. I think my soul 
has been here and but my body in Virginia ! " 

"My lord Marquess knows of your coming?" 
she asked. 

" As yet, no, and I fear it is a question — 
at first — of how he may receive me. We 
parted with the bitterest of quarrels when I 
chose, like a hot-head as I was, to follow 
Prince Charlie ; indeed, he swore that once 
gone, alive or dead, he would neither recog- 
nize nor pardon me." 

He moved back to the chair with the 
words, and presently the girl, saying that he 
must need food, called the old servant from 
the kitchen, whispered her some directions, 
and began to spread a little table at his side. 
Revelstoke, watching, admiring her, found a 
crowd of youthful memories throng upon 
him— a hundred times he had plagued and 
petted her. His meal was over when he 
spoke again. 

"You were alone in the boat, Alison— you 
saved and rowed me ashore alone. But how 
came I here ? Who carried me ? " 

"Two, tny lord— they made a stretcher of 
sail-cloth. Peter Wright you will not know 
— he is a new comer in these parts. The 



other was Amos Ridpath. You remember 

" Yeoman Ridpath's son ? Surely. A young 
giant he promised to be." He laughed suddenly. 
" Why, I once gave him a trouncing with my 
hunting-whip for plaguing you by tormenting 
your kitten, did I riot ? I recollect it well, 
and how, although you had cried over the 
beast, you looked on at the drubbing with 
never a tear, hard-hearted little maid that you 
were ! If he, too, remembers it, 'tis a wonder 
that he came to my help." 

" He did not see you," she said, quickly. 
" I covered your face. Had he known, he 
might have refused even me." She hesitated, 
her rich colour deepening. " Indeed, he 
remembers well that you flogged him. And 
Amos is strange and secret ; he forgets 
nothing, and, I think, pardons as little." 

" Does he not ? I must shift to make my 
peace with him," said Revelstoke, lightly. 
He paused. "You were always a very mer- 
maid, I remember; but surely it was some- 
what early to be out with your boat ? " 

" Yes." She glanced away. " I had not 
slept. I saw the ship's sails from my window 
as day broke, and so rowed out to watch her 

"To watch her pass? You could not 
know she was the Young Virginia ? " 

"I— guessed so, my lord. I know her 
rigging well. And I had watched each day 
for her — she was a full week overdue." 

"That is so; the winds were contrary. 
And so you watched for her? Why, you 
are like a child who looks for a present from 
overseas. Or was it a letter you hoped for? 
. . . Why, Alison ! " 

He stared, amazed at the tremor that ran 
over her, at the gesture, instantly checked, 
that she made to cover her face. She stood 
dumb, downcast, crimson. He rose and laid 
his hand on her shoulder. 

"Sure you would not blush so for nothing, 
my dear," he said, kindly. "A friend so old 
and so grateful may ask a question, may he 
not ? There is someone you love in Virginia?" 

" Yes, my lord," she whispered. 

" Ah, I thought it ! And you lie sleepless 
and watch for the ship, and row out to see 
her near, in the hope that she may bring you 
news of him— or, perhaps, himself ?" i^he 
nodded. His half laugh was half a sigh. 
" I swear he is a happy man, child ! I 
would I knew and could do him some service 
for your sake, though he should ask no better 
fortune than is his already. You will tell me 
his name ? . . . Not yet ? But I must hear 
it before I go back to Virginia." 

" Back ? " she cried. " You go back, my 
lord ? " 

" Surely ; as soon as may be. What else ?" 
His momentarily puzzled look at her startled 
face passed as he laughed. " Listen ! You 
shall have a secret in exchange for yours. 
You in England have your sweetheart in 
Virginia. I, in Virginia, left my sweetheart 
in England. Now you shall guess me her 
name. . . . No ? You cannot ? Sure your 
wits are dull on a sudden. Who should 
she be but my father's ward — Mistress Celia 

" Mistress Mannering ? " cried the girl, 

" No other. We were betrothed when I 
was last at Qucston, though none but our- 
selves knew it ; with my father so hot against 
me 'twas no time to ask consent. She is at 
Queston ? . . . That's well. You shall carry 
me a message for her if you will. I fear I 
may need a peacemaker with the Marquess ; 
and my smug brother Ralph hath never loved 
me overmuch, nor I him, to say truly. He 
would make me but a sorry advocate. My 
pretty Celia must plead my cause. She is 

"Yes, she is well. But— but — my lord, 

I . . . Ah, see she is here ! " cried 


She drew from the window as he eagerly 
came to it, looking out upon the figure that 
alighted at the cottage gate — rose-cheeked, 
gold-haired, and slender, moving in a silken 
rustle of brocade, it showed delicate and fine 
as a flower. He laughed. "She hath not 
changed in near six years, Alison — she might 
be but nineteen still. Faith, I shall make 
but a grim bridegroom for such a rose ! I 
pray she doth not swoon at sight of me ! 
. . . Ah, she calls you ! " 

"Alison — Alison Peerless!" The voice, 
raised and sweet, sounded in the entry; a tap 
of high-heeled shoes advanced; the girl stood 
radiant in the open door. " Oh, you are here, 
Alison ! La, child, you need not look so 
moonstruck to see me. Tis likely you may 
have my lord anon. He is near as curious as 
I. Sure it is not true, the tale Peter Wright's 
wife hath brought my woman, that out in 
your boat this morning, before 'twas light, 
you rescued and brought ashore a whole 
ship's crew of drowning men ? 'Tis so mon- 
strous dull at Queston that " 

She gave no cry as she saw Revelstoke. 
With dilated eyes and pink mouth agape she 
stood stock srTd SafiEPi's tared, before, with 
hands impatentJy extended, she: backed away. 
Alison went out, and for a moment the two 



stood regarding each other. Then the girl 
found her tongue. 

" Anthony ! " she gasped. He advanced 
a quick pace and she recoiled again. " No, 

no ! I — I " She stammered to 

dumbness, blanched and quaking — terror 
and avoidance were in every line of her. 
Revelstoke stood still. 

44 As you see, it is I," he said, dryly, and 
waited. ..." It would seem that you are 
minded to give me but a cold welcome, my 
dear ! " 

14 1 — I did not know ! " she gasped again. 
44 1 — I did not dream that you would risk — 
would come " 

44 Back to England ? Nevertheless, it is 
done. And a man should choose to risk 
much for a wife ! But it is near six years 
ago — you have perhaps forgot " 

44 No, no — I remember. But — but — I 
. . . Anthony ! . . . Oh, I cannot speak it ! 
Anthony " 

Helplessly she thrust out a small shaking 
hand — the teft He caught it, pulled her to 
the light, looked at the diamonds shining 
upon the slim third finger, and tossed it 
away. Had he struck her she would have 
shrunk less scared than at his laughter. He 
swept her a bow, very low. 

44 My apologies, madam," he said, very 
smoothly. 44 1 also did not know. Had I 
done so I should scarce be here to claim a 
bride who, it seems, has promised herself 
to another." He looked at her, and now 
she could have struck him for his smile. 
4 * Your pardon — may I ask the favour of my 
successor's name ? " 

Her shaking lips shaped the name — no 
more, but he understood. Back against the 
table, he laughed again. 

44 What, Sutherland— Colonel Richard ? 
Madam, my best congratulations ! He 
should be a happy man to win such a bride, 
though scarce, I fear, a bridegroom to your 
taste— there lies something of a gap between 
fifty and five-and : twenty ! Though sure it 
may be bridged when 'tis remembered that on 
the death of my lord Duke his uncle —who is 
near ninety, I think ?— he makes you Duchess 
of Tadcaster ! " 

44 Oh, I hate you; I hate you!" hissed 
Celia, fiercely. She turned on him like a 
spitting kitten, with a stamp of babyish fury. 
44 And you, my lord ? What do you offer me ? 
Would you house the Marchioness of Queston 
in a wigwam in Virginia ? " she cried. 

44 1 own no such title to wear or offer, 

" madam, nor, (or my father's sake, desire it, ' 

Revelstoke answered, coolly. He surveyed 

her scarlet cheeks, her trembling rage, it may 
be with a sort of wonder to find himself 
moved so little. 44 But your last packet, 
I call to mind, was wondrous affectionate, 
with as many vows of faith as pages. Was it 
writ before or after you wore the future Duke 
of Tadcaster's ring?" 

44 What matters ? " she muttered. 

4 ' To me, not at all. To you, it seems, as 
little. But I fear Colonel Sutherland would 
scarce care to read your letters to a former 
and still undiscarded lover." 

44 You would show them ? " she cried, and 
suddenly, imploringly caught his hand. 44 No, 
no; you would not. He is of all men the 
proudest ; he would break with me if he 
knew ! I — I swore there had been no one 
else, and he can neither tell a lie nor pardon 
one. I care nothing for him — I own it 
How should I ? My father would have been 
no older. But to be Duchess of Tadcaster — 
it tempted me too far. I shall hate him 
when he is my husband, very like ; but " 

She stopped with a scream. Neither had 
heard Alison's touch upon the half-closed 
door or its opening ; but for a minute she 
had stood there, checked by the hand upon 
her arm, whose owner looked over her 
shoulder. Now he put her aside, entering, 
and she drew away to the window, uncertain 
whether to go or stay. Celia, with her 
scream, clutched a chair-back and stood 
shaking — her little, scarlet face of passion 
milk-white with fright. And Colonel Richard 
Sutherland came forward, making her a bow. 
He was a tall man, lean and ungraceful, with 
a hawk-nosed, brick-red face, his own hair 
in a reddish-grey peruke, and ice-blue eyes as 
keen as steel. 

44 Your pardon, madam," he said, in a 
voice that matched them very well. 4t As I 
rode by I saw your coach waiting by Mistress 
Peerless's gate and made bold, as you see, 
to follow you. Had I known what errand 
brought you I should still have taken that 
freedom if but to assure this gentleman that 
I should not read the letters which he would 
not offer, for the reason that I have no longer 
the honour of any concern with their writer.' 

44 Ah ! " cried Celia, sharply. 44 You have 
listened, sir ! " 

44 1 have overheard, madam." 

44 And — and you would say " she 


14 1 would say, madam," said the Colonel, 
with another bow, t4 that, though I trust 
always to think as liule of myself as may be, 
I desliWdl'itfiRt^rr^OfchytiHifc th.e Duchess of 

9 6 



" You — you mean — — " she gasped again. 

"That I fear a lady who has chosen to 
betray an absent lover may equally befool an 
old and hated husband, madam. I would 
counsel you to return to your faith and duty, 
should he to whom you pledged them be 
willing. I have not the pleasure of your 
name, sir, but I beg you to believe that I 
trespass upon no man's rights knowingly." 

" My name — with due respect — is my own 
affair, sir," Revelstoke answered, quietly, 
" It can have no interest for Colonel Suther- 
land when I add that, like himself, I have no 
longer the honour of any concern with Miss 

"Honour!" Celia cried, fiercely* Eyes 
and cheeks blazed as she came between the 
two — passion, spleen, mortified vanity had 
carried her out of herself. It was with 
another little feline burst of fury that she 
turned upon Sutherland now, " Faith, 

forsooth, and duty ! You 
may think less of my 
broken faith, hearing to 
whom it was pledged, 
sir ; and, knowing, will 
scarce need to be told 
\our duty! His name? 
You ask for what he 
dare not give you, and, 
in England, dare not 
hear ! He is Anthony 
Revel, condemned rt bel 
id traitor, and stands 
here in peril of his life ! " 
It was Alison who 
screamed, but Celia, the 
words spoken, stopped 
with a gasp of panic — 
perhaps only as she 
heard them did their full 
horror dawn upon 
her. For a breath 
she stood blank- 
faced, staring 
wildly, til en gave 
a choked cry and 
ran out ; in a 
moment her 
rolled creaking 
away. Revelstoke 
broke the tense 
silence that fol- 
lowed her exit ; 
Sutherland, he 
made a movement 
as though he 
drew and surrendered a sword, 

" I am your prisoner, sir," he said, curtly. 
" Faith, my lord, for the moment I think 
not," said Sutherland, He stood ramrod 
stiff, fingering his chin. " I can scarce drag 
you at my horse tail to Clastonbury. Indeed, 
to ride there to day would be vastly incon- 
venient to me, having other work on hand* 
I fear it may be midday tomorrow at earliest 
before I can give information of you at the 
barracks. Afterwards — should yon not be 
found here — I pledge my word that every rat- 
hole in Bristol and thereabouts shall be 
most soundly searched for you." 

"You mean n cried Revelstoke. 

** Nothing, my lord, but that, as I have 
said already, I desire to think much of the 
Duchess of Tadcaster," 
With nd-^HfilrfcgalifiriPlriieof his red, wooden 

fecepN|VfR|ff^^reH*SftN A ! ison "Ught 
Revelstoke's arm, white and shaking. 



"It is not true?" she cried, imploringly. 

" That I stand here in peril of my life ? 
No less, child. I am attainted rebel and 
traitor— I have borne arms against King 
George, Sentence hath been passed upon 
me; it is on pain of death that I return. 
Sure you knew it, did you not ? " 

" Yes — no, no ! Tis so long ago — five 
years. I hoped — I thought " 

"That His Most Sacred Majesty would 
therefore pardon ? Were it thrice five years 
it would not blunt the axe. Should I be 
taken it is the block for me, and my head 
aloft to rot on Temple Bar, my dear ! " 

" No, no ; do not say it ! " she cried, in 
horror. He smiled, patting her shoulder. 

" Foolish girl — come, come ! Taken ? 
Why, I hope there is small fear of it, though 
I have but a short grace, and must be away 
as soon as may be. But first I must see my 
father, Alison." 

" The Marquess ? " she faltered. " Miss 
Mannering said he would come here, my lord." 

" Come hera? Ah, yes — I had forgot it." 
He laughed half bitterly. " It seems I must 
needs shift without a peace-maker ! But 
should he not come I must send a letter. 
If you will give me pen and paper " 

She answered " Yes," and ran out, but in 
a minute hurried in again. 

" My lord," she began, breathless, "your 

father " and drew aside from the way of 

the figure that followed her. Revelstoke 
sprang forward, flushing red, with hand 
extended eagerly. 

" Father ! " he cried. 

The Marquess gave one great start, made 
one impulsive step as though to take the 
hand, checked, and stopped. Deliberately, 
composedly, he put his own hands behind 
him, standing rigid and tall — his old face set 
itself into lines of iron. 

" You come, I think, from Virginia, sir ? " 
he said, slowly. 

The tone was ice. Revelstoke drew back. 

" From Virginia, my lord." 

" I supposed it. You bring, it may be, 
news of — my son ? " 

" It may be, my lord." 

" Ha ! But not, I hope, that he designs to 
return to England ? " 

" He has no such design, my lord." 

" He is wise, since, putting it aside that 
he returns on pain of death, to do so would 
be useless," said the Marquess. " I do not 
change, sir, and shall not. When it pleased 
him — him, my heir— to turn rebel and traitor 
he knew the penalty. You will do well to 
convey to him as much, and add — though he 

VoL mii.-ia 

should know it — that, for the sake of those 
whose name he hath disgraced, it would be 
better were he dead." 

" Oh, my lprd, have no concern ! " Revel- 
stoke broke out "Your son, trust me, 
disgraces no one henceforth. Permit me 
to convey the welcome news that he is dead 
already ! " 

He laughed. The iron-set face of the 
Marquess blenched and quivered for an 
instant —no more. 

"A life dishonoured is, without doubt, 
best ended," he said, frigidly. "For your- 
self, sir, I presume that you return to 
Virginia, and " 

" Ah ! " cried Alison. 

Revelstoke had staggered with a sharp 
gasp, his hand at his side. A sudden, keen 
spasm of pain in his wound wrenched and 
whitened him. As the girl ran to him, and 
for a moment he leaned upon her, the 
Marquess, with an exclamation, made a swift 
step forward and drew as swiftly back, 
standing still and grim. 

" It seems you have a hurt — a wound, 
sir ? " he said, coldly. 

"A trifle, my lord — an Indian bullet — 
nothing. ... As your lordship supposes, I 
return to Virginia. 4\ man with neither 
home nor tie may live where he will, and 
there at least I have made the means of 
livelihood. Once more I beg you to be 
assured that you have heard the last of 
Anthony Revel ! " 

He bowed, leaving the way clear to the door. 
The Marquess, approaching it, stopped. 

" If you have need of money, sir " he 


"None, my lord." 

Unquenchable pride in the eyes of the 
father met unquenchable pride in the eyes of 
the son ; the old man turned and walked 
slowly out. 

" Oh, 'twas cruel ! " cried Alison. " Sure 
the Marquess " 

" Does but keep his oath as he swore it — 
he will neither know nor pardon me. I was 
his favourite, which can but make his wound 
gall deeper. I had hoped, after so long a 

parting Well, 'tis not so, and I must 

go, Alison." 

" Go ? " she echoed, blankly. " Where ? " 

"Why, truly, that's a question, since there 
are none who, knowing, durst harbour me." 

" You shall not go ! " She came between 
him and the door. " You were near swoon- 
ing just now — you would swoon upon the 
road. UNfAftrat least until morning; you will 
be rested — stronger. Risk ? To talk of risk 



to me ! They may prison me for a score of 
years, once you are clear away ! I should 
but laugh if you were safe— *tis all I care for 
in the world ! " 

li Why, Alison ! " He checked the passionate 
tush of her speech. " I should be loath to buy 
my safety at a price of your paying, my dear, 
let it be light as it might ! And all you rare 
for? Come, come! In your kindness for 
me you forget another who would scarce care 
to hear you say so ! " 

kl Another? " she echoed* 

11 Surely ! Have you forgot your lover in 

" In Virginia?" 

She looked at him. Her face, in its pain, 
reproach, appeal, and wonder, might merely 
have bewildered him, but for the burning 
colour ihat crimsoned it and the low, hearts 
stricken cry with which, covering it, she 

shrank trembling 
away. En Ugh tenet), 
he stood dumb, 
When, presently, he 
spoke her name, ap- 
proaching her, she 
shrank farther, her 
face hidden still 

** No, no," she said, 
in a moan, " you can 
say nothing, my lord. 
And I — I have no 
lie that can serve me. 
- . . Oh, I had meant 
to be silent and hold 
my secret always — it 
is the law for women, 
and if 'tis broke we 
must needs near die 
of shame* As I 
must do, for you will 
remember always 
and scorn me." 

"Scorn you!" For 
a moment he touched 
the beautiful shamed 
head as it drooped 
down. " Ix>ok at me," 
he told her gently, 
and she looked up, 
very pale. " My dear, 
I don't know how it 
happens that you do 
M^> me so much honour, 

i but since you do . . . 

Heaven knows, a 
woman could scarce 
have a poorer suitor, 
since I am my father's 
son no longer. I may leave you one day 
—who can tell? — to grieve a rebel's widow. 
But there should be safety for us in Virginia, 
and I go back rich beyond count if I take 
you. Will you come?" 

He hardly heard her joyfully answered 
" Yes," had no need to hear it, being 
answered already by her irradiated face. 
She drew herself from his embrace, her 
hands against his breast. 

"Oh," she said, half proud, half piteous, 
" I know well that as yet you do not love me, 
but — -" 

" Do I not ? " Something of the laughter 
that, in the eyes of the boy, had, all 
unknowing, won her child's love shone in 
his eyes now as he looked back at her. 
" Why, if you will have plain speaking, I 
>upptfW^:^W9M1l€m(^r^n« I did not 
But when you talked, as I thought, of your 



lover in Virginia, I swear I envied him, and 
grudged the Fortune that gave him such a 
love and such a wife." 

Indeed, there was earnestness enough in 
his face to satisfy her, as hers, in answer, 
might well sweep any other out of a man's 
memory. But in a moment he winced and 
paled at a returning throb and stab of his 
wound, and, all tender alarm, she besought 
him to rest and sleep again, throwing open 
the door of the chamber he had quitted. 
She closed it upon him, rose-red and tremu- 
lous from his just-given kiss, turned back into 
the outer room, and started with a cry ; the 
great figure of Amos Ridpath stood within 
the opposite door. He made a stride forward. 

"How durst my Lord Revelstoke kiss 
you ? " he demanded. 

" Amos ! " Fluttered because he had seen, 
astonished that he was there, amazement at 
his words was stronger still, "You knew 
him ?" she cried. 

" Knew him ! You were so wondrous 
eager to keep his face hid that I had a mind 
to see it. Small fear but I should know 
him ! As well as though 'twas yesterday he 
flogged me." He came nearer. "How 
dared he kiss you, I say?" 

He was hoarse, white, furious. Many 
times the girl had seen that lowering of 
sullen rage in his face, and had never quailed 
for him, though he had often blenched for 
her. But he had never accosted her as 
roughly as this. Angered by the threatening 
violence of look and tone, she mercilessly 
flung him the answer. " I am to be his wife ! " 
she said. 

The words might have been a blow, for he 
reeled under them. In an instant her mood 
changed and she ran to him, all pity. 

" Oh, I should not have said it so, Amos ! " 
She stopped, would have taken his hand but 
that he fell back from her. " I know you 
have cared for me always, Amos, dear. But 
have you ever, girl or woman, got aught from 
me but 'no' and 'no' again? It may be I 
should have told you that from a child I 
have loved him and had no eyes or heart or 
thought for any man beside. But I could 
not — a woman must needs hide her heart — 
and I scarce hoped that I should even see 
him again. But now ! Oh, but now he is 

here, and " A sob and a laugh caught 

her throat; she choked them back. "But 
he is not safe, Amos. He dare not stay in 
England for his life— his life !" 

" His life ! " He gasped it with a ghastly 

"Yes, yes. Sure you know it, do you 

not ? Tis death if he is taken. And there 
may be some so vile who, did they know of 
it, would betray him. So he goes back to 
Virginia as quickly as may be, and I with 
him. He is wounded and weak ; he must 
lie hid quietly until a ship sails. My lord 
Marquess hath Ah ! " 

She. exclaimed as the latch of the door 
behind her clicked ; Revelstoke, entering, 
spoke quickly. 

" Did you call me, child ? I thought 

Why, who's here ? Amos Ridpath, surely ! 
Faith, Amos, you have grown a giant in six 
years ! I am right glad to see you again, 

He offered his hand With an indescrib- 
able hoarse, wordless sound, an indescribable 
gesture, the other retreated from it. Sur- 
prised, Revelstoke looked at Alison. 

" Why, what's this ? " He looked at Amos 
again, half laughed. " Sure, man, you bear 
no grudge for a drubbing that's near ten 
years old ? Come, if 'tis so I ask your 
pardon and give you my best thanks for the 
good service that I hear you did me this 

Ridpath fell back another pace, gasping a 
great breath, turning a look upon the girl. 
Horror was in it ; a very dumb anguish of 
rage and fear — that and something more. 
She saw it ; with a sudden movement she 
clutched him by the arms, peered close at 
him, and sprang back with a shriek. 

" Ah ! " she screamed. " My lord, he has 
betrayed you ! " 

She had caught Revelstoke's hand ; for 
an instant it shut hard on hers, but his eyes 
were upon the face whose livid look of guilt 
answered for itself. A moment went by so. 
Ridpath made a step forward, his powerful 
hands clenched as they hung. 

" Aye," he said, doggedly, " I had a mind 
to your flogging, my lord. A whip, look you, 
may sting more than the back — 'tis once 
scarred, raw always with me. And there's no 
cooling in my blood once 'tis hot. I swore 
when you thrashed me that I would pay my 
debt to you when the chance came, if 'twas 
in twenty years ! " 

" And you have done it ? " Revelstoke 

" Aye. Twas easy to see your face this 
morning, and she none the wiser. I 
knew you. . . . She's right. I ha' been to 
the barracks at Glastonbury. But now . . . 
Here — 'tis loaded ! You had best shoot 
me, my lord, and have your revenge, since, 
happen what may, all's broke past hope 'twixt 
her and me 1 " • . . ■ 



He flung a pistol on to the table, and 
swiftly the girl caught it up. 

41 1 will do worse for you ! " she cried, 
fiercely, and thrust it into her breast. " I 
will shoot myself, Amos Ridpath, if my lord 
do not get safe away ! You shall murder me 
— rne— if he is taken !" She caught at him 
and shook him roughly. "The soldiers! 
Quick I Where are they?" 

li Close. I did but come to warn you." 

11 Close ? " For an instant her hands were 
tight upon her* head ; then she seized his 
arm again, changing to vehement command, 
passionate entreaty. "You must save him, 

Amos ! Oh, save him and 111 pardon you a 
thousand times, I'll pray for you on my 
knees. I'll hold the thought of you dear for 
it as long as I live ! The sea — 'tis the only 
way." She sprang to the window, pulling 
him with her, and uttered a cry of wild relief 
and joy. " Look ! look ! I hoped it There 
is the Good Fortune in the bay ; she is on 
her way to Minehead ; take your boat ; row 
out ; stop her ; tell my uncle, Captain Batch - 
ford, 'tis my life he saves if he takes my lord 
aboard in safety . He must put about and 
make for Cork or Water ford ; from there we 
may find a ship for America, or a packet to 




Original from 


"she caught at him and shook jiim roughly/ 



take us across to France. Quickly ! quickly ! 
Oh, Amos, if you pity me ! " 

She thrust him towards the door. For an 
instant, as he resisted her, the struggle in his 
face was dark, then he struck his hand down 
upon the table with a ringing blow. 

" By Heaven, I'll do it ! " he cried. " If I 
do not, and save him, you shall set your 
shoe on my face, Alison ! " 

He rushed out. The girl sprang to the 
opposite door and turned the key. 

"It has no bolts," she said rapidly, "nor 
has the front door, but they will serve to 
keep them out a few minutes — they must 
needs come that way. And while they 
search the house, 'tis a few minutes more. 
There is a path through the sandhills to the 
shore that they will scarce find unguided. 
Tis but a little way, and " 

" They are here ! " cried Revelstoke. 

It was true. As they hurried out and 
through the garden at the back of the 
cottage a blow sounded upon the panels of 
the door, followed by the hoarse command 
to open in the name of the King. The 
garden gave straight upon the sandhills 
above the shore. The track of which 
Alison had spoken, its entrance masked 
by a clump of thorn-bushes, was some 
three hundred yards distant. Before they 
reached it Revelstoke had staggered more 
than once ; a dozen paces down its slope he 
stumbled, swaying against its sandy wall, and 
but for her quick arms would have fallen. 

" I fear I cannot go on, child," he said, 

" Yes, yes. Wait ; rest a moment." She 
supported him, fighting the quaking terror at 
her heart. " They may not come this way, 
and the path is so hid " 

The words stopped on her tongue, choked 
by shouted commands and the sound of many 
feet — the soldiers had turned to the sandhills. 
Between the end of the path and the water 
there lay a flat stretch of beach. No hope 
that way — they would be seen. As Revel- 
stoke, rallying, stood erect, she caught his 
arm, drew him a few paces farther, made a 
sharp turn down a narrow passage to the 
right, and they were in a natural hollowed 
cave in the sand. If the entrance to the path 
were discovered their pursuers might pass on 
unknowing. It was a last poor chance. The 
shouts and feet came nearer, louder, paused. 
Revelstoke heard. He swayed again as he 
clutched her shoulder. 

" The pistol, child ! " he said, thickly. 

"The pistol?" she gasped. "You — you 
would " 

"Use it? Yes. Since it must needs be 
death, I'll choose the way. I have no mind 
to make a show for the rabble, and you will 
grieve less knowing it over. Keep them back 
an instant ; it is the best kindness you can 
do me. The pistol — quickly ! " 

It was in her hand, she almost gave it, but 
recoiled with a shriek of wild refusal and 
horror. He tried to reach it, got her wrist, 
swayed again, staggered, and she caught him 
as he fell. His inert weight, dragging her to 
her knees, slipped through her arms, and lay 
motionlessly still — he had swooned. The 
officer in advance of the soldiers, reaching the 
bend, cried out as the flash and crack of a 
report filled the cave ; the smoke of it cleared ; 
he saw the prone figure, and shouted to his 
men to keep back. Then, on a sudden, he 
was as still because he faced the levelled 
pistol which the girl held in a hand as steady 
as her desperate eyes. 

" There is a shot left," she said, in a fierce 
whisper ; " for you, before you shall touch him, 
I swear it ; and after for me what must come. 
He was your prey living ; you may leave him 
to me now." Then her voice rose smooth 
and very clear, reaching the soldiers clustered 
beyond the turn. " You come too late, sir, 
since, as you see, my Lord Revelstoke is 
dead ! " 

For a moment the officer stood hesitating. 
He lacked no courage, but he was young for 
a bullet, the girl was beautiful, and, to his 
eyes, the man lay dead. He made a gesture 
of deprecation as he stepped back, baring 
his head. 

" It would seem, madam, that I am indeed 
too late, since, as you say, I perceive my lord 
Viscount is dead." 

" That being so, you will not arrest him, 

" Surely not, madam. With a dead man 
His Majesty hath no quarrel. Being dead, 
axe, block, and headsman can do no more." 

" It was his choice to escape them, sir." 

" In his lordship's place it would have been 
my endeavour, madam. If I can render you 
any help " 

" 1 thank you — none, sir." 

The officer bowed and turned —his voice 
cried out to his men to march — they were 
too late, the quarry lay dead — their feet 
tramped up the path, died on the sandy 
levels above. Only then did the girl's tense 
figure collapse. Crouched beside the un- 
conscious man, the pistol flung away, she 
sobbed, weak as a child, caressing his hair, 
kissing his cold hand^ uu:if he stirred, opened 
his eyes, struggled up on his elbow to stare 




at her, all bewildered, listened wonderstruck 
to her recital— it brought her near hysterical 
laughter now that it was past — of the rase 
that had secured the retreat of officer and 
men. So presently, with her help, ho w.;ls 
upon his feet, and then, very slowly, he 
leaning upon her, they were down the path 
and out upon the beach, where the Good 
Fortune \ brought to, waited in the bay, and 
Amos RidpattVs powerful strokes were pulling 
his boat back, to shore. As they halted, 
waiting, Revelstoke took the girl in his arms 
and held her. 

by Google 

"By the life you have given me twice over, 
by all that a man may best swear by and 
hold sacred," he said, solemnly, " I will repay 

you, sweetheart, in 

His kiss she 
answered with a kiss, 
but as she gave it 
drew away and 
pushed him from 

"No, no," she 
said, and moaned. 
"I will not go. 
Heart's dearest, you 
shall not marry me* 
In his heart my lord 
loves you as dear as 
ever — I saw it, as 
you must — 'twas 
torture to him to 
turn away. He will 
relent — he is high 
in favour at Couit 
— he wilt win you 
pardon of the King. 
You will stand in 
your own place 
again, and there I 
should be no fit wife 
for you," 

"Alison!" He 
caught her by the 
waist. "Unfit ? 
You ? And my own 
place ? I swear that 
were it mine again 
for the grasping I 
would fling it away 
to take you, and 
most humbly thank 
my fortune. And 
for the rest — look 
yonder and see how my father pardons me." 

His arm tightened its clasp as she followed 
his gesture, but his eyes, for the moment, 
were not for her. They were fixed upon the 
flag on the turret of the great house across the 
valley, that, lowered to half- mast, streamed 
out against the russet Quest on woods. 
Perhaps he divined something of the figure 
of the grim old man who, torn by the anguish 
of a love that could not pardon, stood in the 
courtyard below and watched the flutter of 
that same flag with a rigid and unflinching 

Original from 


If Our Fashions Were Theirs. 


as the technical 
phrase goes. 
Not only are we 
as familiar with 
ruffs, doublets, 
and hose as we 
are with the be- 
winged collar, 
tailed coats, an(J 
creased trousers 
which adorn our 
persons in this 
year of grace, 
but we know the 
chiton and dip- 
loidon of the 
Periclean Greek 
or the tunic and 
toga of the 

E are so much accustomed in 
art to the attire of our ancestors 
that a mere glance at an 
historical picture serves to in- 
dicate for us the period of 
which it treats — to "date" it, 


Rtpradmeed by permitxum frum Hit Original in the pouuium of the 
Corporatism of Liverpool. 

Augustan Roman quite as Well also. No 
longer would playgoers be fobbed off with 
the shritkin^ anachronisms to which Garrick 
used to treat his audiences in the eighteenth 
century. The humblest occupant of the 
shilling gallery would vociferously protest 

against the spec- 
tacle of Julius 
Caesar in the 
Georgian equiva- 
lent of a modern 
frock coat, or of 
Macbeth in a 
suit of tweeds. 
And if the 
actors erred in 
their historical 
costume, the 
painters and en- 
gravers were 
scarcely more 
accurate, and 
bobwigs and 
small-clothes fre- 
quently figure in 


The itov* ihows the ch*nge which would be wrought if the mediae vaJ Florentines dreised u we do. 



their delineation of classical scenes and 

With the representation of an actual his- 
torical scene or event a painter can, of course, 
no longer consult merely his own taste. He 
must be archaeological ly ace male, or ihu 
critic at once descends upon hi in with ridi- 
cule, But suppose the case were that the 
people of the period represented actually 
dressed as we 
dress in a.d. 
19 i o ? Would 
it destroy the 
poetry, the 
charm of the 
picture ? Take 
Mr. Holiday's 
beautiful picture 
of "Dante's 
First Meeting 
With Beatrice," 
How much of 
the romantic 
appeal of that 
composition lies 
in the dress of 
the chief charac- ** shortly after marriage." 



ters portrayed by the artist ? How much 
is due to the innate pathos of the event, 
which would be just as touching and absorb* 
ing if it had occurred now in Florence, as 
when it happened in the fourteenth century ? 
We must grant the romantic nature of the 
milieu. The scene must be on the banks of 
the Arno, and not beside Waterloo Bridge, 
We cannot, even by the most vivid flight of 

i m ag i n at ion, 
conjure up Mr, 
William Watson 
or Mr. Stephen 
Phillips halting, 
overcome with 
emotion, at the 
sight of Miss 
Phyllis Dare or 
Miss Viola Tree; 
no, not even in 
the romantic 
p'recincts of 
Holborn Via- 
duct* and so fur- 
nishing a theme 
for the painter's 

The same picture in which the characters are endowed with modern garments. 



Let us, therefore, take 
Florence for granted, and 
the characters of Dante and 
Beatrice are the same. But 
what a metamorphosis 
would be wrought if the 
poet of "The Inferno" 
dressed as a poet of to-day 
might be expected to dress ! 
Such is the influence of 
time upon the draperies 
worn in the past that they 
would have come them- 
selves to signify poetry and 
romance, Will the good 
people of posterity ever be 
stirred to a soft and dreamy 
emotion by the delineation 
of our tenuous robes and 
spreading headgear, by our 
loose tweed jackets, cylin- 
drical u bags/ 1 and bowler 
hats ? We wonder ! 

Turning to another 
period, what pictures are 
more familiar than those 
of Hogarth depicting "Mar 
riage a la Mode"? A la 
node then signified 1745, 
when wigs and laced silk 
coatsandsilk knee-breeches 
and cocked hats were pre- 
scribed for men, and pow- 
dered hair, tight-laced 
bodices* and hoop skirts for 

"uncle toby and the widow wadman. 15 

BY i - ft. LESLIE, k.A. 

How the same scene would appear to-day, 

women. It would he impossible to bring the 
events of this famous series of moral pictures 
up to date, or to cojfeeive of their happening 
to-day, for so many of the customs and con- 
ditions of society are completely altered : but 
taking a solitary one out of the six of them 
we ran see at a glance how much (or how 
little) of the interest depends on the dress of 
the characters. 

Is it possible to imagine u ' Uncle Tohy 
and the Widow Wadm&n' 1 in the twentieth 
century costume? (lur artist has rendered 
it possible* But we have to throw overboard 
at the same time a bundle of associations, 
memories, and impressions connected with 
the skirted ©RtjfciaaJftaw breeches period, 

and. 5>ainp |i Ert9i^ w^McfflGRW rather the y 

remained ? 



Has the reader 
ever paused to 
reflect upon the 
important part 
costume and dra- 
peries and coif- 
fure play in many 
of his favourite 
pictures ? 

"Figure, com- 
position, back- 
ground are im- 
portant in the 
making of a pic- 
ture, but costume 
is of immense 
importance also," 
wrote Millais. 


Rirwhtteit bv pcrmitti&n from the Original in the jwtKiitoa af the 
Cortwratict* of Liven*xtl. 

whether the form 
of the heroine 
should be en- 
ve loped in a 
farthingale or a 
redingote, a cri- 
noline or classi- 
cal robe, and 
whether the 
limbs of the hero 
should be en- 
cased in tights, 
knee - breeches, 
pantaloons, trou 
sers, or the u mil 
nodin^s on " o! 
the Roman and 
the Highlander. 

The change in our manners is here emphasized by the modern dress of the characters, 

"There is nothing to which I attach more 
importance than the clothing of my figures, 
and the precise kind of clothing which will 
be appropriate to the subject" 

Millais, Leighton, and, indeed, most of 
our great painters made first studies of their 
figures without any costume at all, and only 
at a later stage endowed them with draperies, 
so that, doubtless, unless the exigencies of a 
certain period demanded it, there may have 
been a time when it was an even choice 

A famous picture is u Lorenzo and 
Isabella.' 9 Here again we are astonished 
at the effect which the alteration of apparel 
produces- Yet the dramatis persons were 
all renl modern and not medieval people. 
Miliars sister-in-law posed for Isabella; the 
Lorenzo is a portrait of William RossettL 
The man wiping his lips is Millais's father, 
Algernon Swinburne, F, G, Stephens, Hugh 
Fei]n L alspm is drinking 

oar-w'iEfiaggiws^rthe end, on the right 



In this scene what especially strikes us, 
perhaps, is the "wide gulf of manners which 
separates our epoch from that delineated by 
the painter. The subject is, of course, taken 
from Keats's well known poem " Isabella." 
At table is seated the whole family ; with 
timid adoration Lorenzo speaks to Isabella, 
feeling himself dependent and held in con- 
tempt by Isabella's brothers. One of the 
latter has stretched his leg out to bestow a 
kick upon his sister's dog. 

Fair Isabel ; poor, simple Isabel ! 
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love 1 * eye, 

They could not m the self-same mansion dwell 
Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 

They could not sit at meals but feel how well 
It soothed each lo fie the other by ; 

They coujd not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, 
But to each other dream and nightly weep* 

The last of 
our pictures re- 
clothed is the 
familiar " Mai- 
volio and the 
Countess." It is 
certain that Mai- 
volio was a great 
■I.irnly, and had 
the dress of our 
epoch been his 
only resource 

era would have 

;ot himself 


according to the tailor's latest ideas on 
the subject of fashion ; or if tailors were 
then less the sartorial authority, and fashion- 
plates unknown, he would be attired as the 
greatest nobles were attired at the festive 
Court of the Duke of Illyria. 

We can imagine Shakespeare writing, in 
the famous fifth scene of Act II. of "Twelfth 

Kc mem her who commended thy striped trousers 
and wished to see them ever wilh a proper crease., I 
say, remember. * . . She did commend my striped 
trousers of late. I thank my stars I am happy. I 
will be strange, stout, in striped trousers, with glossy 
boots f pat e nt lea t h er. 

We may take note of the changes, too, in 
Olivia's coiffure and head -gear, although 
perhaps there is less alteration in her dress 
than one might expect, for the simple 

reason that a 
lady's skirt 
really exhibits 
little change of 
Style from era 
to era, when the 
lady herself is 
seated, T h e 
too - restricted 
garment of the 
Directoire did 
not even ordi- 
narily admit of 
a sitting pos- 
ture ! 


Malvolio in morning coat and creased trousers does not WtClifl'ti^bJ^tltresque. 






lister lived in a little red- 
roofed house in a little red- 
roofed town. They had a little 
garden and a little balcony, 
and a little stable with a little 
pony in it— and a little cart for the pony to 
draw ; a little canary hung in a little cage in 
the little bow window, and the neat little 
servant kept everything as bright and clean 
as a little new pin. 

Philip had no one but his sister, and she 
had no one but Philip. Their parents were 
dead, and Helen, who was twenty years older 
than Philip and was really his half-sister, was 
all the mother he had ever known, And he 
had never envied other boys their mothers, 
because Helen was so kind and clever and 
dean She gave up almost all her time to 
him ; she taught him all the lessons he 
learned ; she played with him, inventing the 
most wonderful new games and adventures* 

Copyright, 1909, 

So that every morning when Philip woke he 
knew that he was waking to a new day of 
joyous and interesting happenings. And this 
went on till Philip was ten years old, and 
he had no least shadow of a doubt that it 
would go on for ever The beginning of the 
change came one day when he and Helen 
had gone for a picnic to the wood where the 
waterfall was —and as they were driving back 
behind the stout old pony, who was so good 
and quiet that Philip was allowed to drive it 
They were coming up the last lane before 
the turning where their house was, and 
Helen said : — 

"To-morrow we'll weed the aster bed and 
have tea in the garden," 

"Jolly," said Philip, and they turned the 
corner and came in sight of their white little 
garden gate. And a man was coming out of 
it, a man who was not one of the friends 
they both knew. He turned and came to 
meet them. Helen put her hand on the 
reins — a thing which she had always taught 
Philip was never done, and the pony Stopped. 
The man, who was, as Philip put it to him- 
self, u ta!l and tweedy," came across in front 
of the pony's nose and stood close by the 

sh^f&fefeWhnP^lEiX "How do 

by E, Nl.-Iili -111 and. 



you do?" in quite the usual way. But after 
that they whispered. Whispered ! And 
Philip knew how rude it is to whisper, 
because Helen had often told him this. He 
heard one or two words, "at last," and 
44 over now," and " this evening, then." 

After that Helen said, "This is my 
brother Philip," and the man shook hands 
with him — across Helen, another thing which 
Philip knew was not manners, and said, " I 
hope we shall be the best of friends." Philip 
said, " How do you do?" because that is the 
polite thing to say. But inside himself he 
said, " I don't want to be friends with you" 

Then the man took off his hat and walked 
off, and Philip and his sister went home. She 
seemed different, somehow, and he was sent 
to bed a little earlier than usual, but he could 
not go to sleep for a long time, because he 
heard the front door- bell ring, and afterwards 
a man's voice and Helen's going on and on 
in the little drawing-room under the room 
which was his bedroom. He went to sleep 
at last, and when he woke up in the morning 
it was raining, and Lhe sky was grey and 
miserable. He lost his collar-stud, he tore 
one of his stockings as he pulled it on, he 
pinched his finger in the door, and he 
dropped his tooth-mug, with water in it too, 
and the mug was broken and the water went 
into his boots. There are mornings, you 
know, when things happen like that. This 
was one of them. 

Then he went down to breakfast, which 
tasted not quite so nice as usual. He was 
late, of course. The bacon-fat was growing 
grey with waiting for him, as Helen said, in 
the cheerful voice that had always said all the 
things he liked best to hear. But Philip 
didn't smile. It did not seem the sort of 
morning for smiling, and the grey rain beat 
against the window. 

After breakfast Helen said, " Tea in the 
garden is indefinitely postponed — and it's too 
wet for lessons." 

That was one of her charming ideas — that 
wet days should not be made worse by lessons. 

" What shall we do ? " she said ; " shall we 
talk about the island ? Shall I make another 
map of it ? And put in all the gardens and 
fountains and swings ? " 

The island was a favourite play. Some- 
where in the warm seas where palm trees are 
and rainbow-coloured sands the island was 
said to be — their own island, beautified by 
their fancy with everything they liked and 
wanted, and Philip was never tired of talking 
about it. There were times when he almost 
believed that the island was real. He was 

King of the island and Helen was Queen, 
and no one else was to be allowed on it. 
Only those two. 

But this morning even the thought of the 
island failed to charm. Philip straggled away 
to the window and looked out dismally at 
the soaked lawn and the dripping laburnum 
trees, and the row of rain-drops hanging fat 
and full on the iron gate. 

"What is it, Pippin?" Helen asked. 
44 Don't tell me you're going to have horrid 
measles, or red-hot scarlet fever, or noisy 

She came across and laid her hand on his 

" Why, you're quite hot, boy of my heart. 
Tell sister, what is it ? " 

" You tell me" said Philip, slowly. 

"Tell you what, Pip?" 

"You think you ought to bear it alone, 
like in books, and be noble and all that. 
But you must tell me— you promised you'd 
never have any secrets from me, Helen — you 
know you did." 

Helen put her arm round him and said 
nothing. And from her silence Pip drew the 
most desperate and harrowing conclusions. 
The' silence lasted. The rain gurgled in the 
water-pipe and dripped on the ivy. The 
canary in the green cage that hung in the 
window put its head on one side and tweaked 
a seed husk out into Philip's face, then 
twittered defiantly. But his sister said nothing. 

"Don't," said Philip, suddenly, "don't 
break it to me ; tell me straight out." 

" Tell you what ? " she said again. 

"What is it?" he said. "/ know how 
these unforetold misfortunes happen. Some- 
one always comes — and then it's broken to 
the family." 

41 What is ? " she asked. 

44 The misfortune," said Philip, breath- 
lessly. " Oh, Helen, I'm not a baby. Do 
tell me ! Have we lost our money in a 
burst bank? Or is the landlord going to 
put bailiffs into our furniture ? Or are we 
going to be falsely accused about forgery, or 
being burglars ? " 

All the books Philip had ever read worked 
together in his mind to produce these 
melancholy suggestions. Helen laughed, 
and instantly felt a stiffening withdrawal of 
her brother from her arm. 

" No, no, my Pippin, dear," she made 
haste to say. * 4 Nothing horrid like that has 

44 Then h\ fodhYi he asked, with a 
growing impatience that; fe!f: like a wolf 
gnawing inside him. 



" I didn't want to tell you all in a hurry 
like this," she said, anxiously ; " but don't 
you worry, my boy of boys. It's something 
that makes me very happy. I hope it will 
you, too." 

He swung round in the circling of her arm 
and looked at her with sudden ecstasy. 

" Oh, Helen, dear — I know ! Someone has 
left you a hundred thousand pounds a year 
— someone you once opened a railway- 
carriage door for — and now I can have a 
pony of my very own to ride. Can't I." 

" Yes," said Helen, slowly, " you can have 
a pony ; but nobody's left me anything. 
Look here, my Pippin," she added, very 
quickly, "don't ask any more questions. 
I'll tell you. When I was quite little like 
you I had a dear friend I used to play with 
all day long, and when we grew up we were 
friends still. He lived quite near us. And 
then he married someone else. And then 
the someone died. And now he wants me 
to marry him. And he's got lots of horses 
and a beautiful house and park," she added. 

" And where shall I be ? " he asked. 

" With me, of course, wherever I am." 

" It won't be just us two any more, though," 
said Philip, "and you said it should be, for 
ever and ever." 

" But I didn't know then, Pip, dear. He's 
been wanting me so long " 

" Don't / want you ?" said Pip to himself. 

" And he's got a little girl that you'll like 
so to. play with," she went on. " Her name's 
Lucy, and she's just a year younger than you. 
And you'll be the greatest friends with her. 
And you'll both have ponies to ride, and " 

" I hate her," cried Philip, very loud, "and 
I hate him, and I hate their beastly ponies. 
And I hate you I" And with these dreadful 
words he flung off her arm and rushed out 
of the room, banging the door after him— -on 

Well, she found him in the boot-cupboard, 
among the gaiters and goloshes and cricket- 
stumps and old rackets— and they kissed and 
cried and hugged each other, and he said he 
was sorry he had been naughty. But in his 
heart that was the only thing he was sorry 
for. He was sorry that he had made Helen 
unhappy. He still hated "that man," and 
most of all he hated Lucy. 

He had to be polite to that man. His 
sister was very fond of that man, and this 
made Philip hate him still more, while at the 
same time it made him careful not to show 
how he hated him. Also it made him feel 
that hating that man was not quite fair to 
his sister, whom he loved. But there were 

no feelings of that kind to come in the way of 
the detestation he felt for Lucy. Helen had 
told him that Lucy had fair hair and wore it 
in two plaits; and he pictured her to himself 
as a fat, stumpy little girl, exactly like the 
little girl in the story of "The Sugar Bread" 
in the old oblong "Shock-Headed Peter" 
book that had belonged to Helen when she 
was little. 

Helen was quite happy. She divided her 
love between the boy she loved and the man 
she was going to marry, and she believed 
that they were both as happy as she was. 
The man, whose name was Peter Graham, 
was happy enough ; the boy, who was Philip, 
was amused— for she kept him so— but under 
the amusement he was miserable. 

And the wedding-day came and went 
And Philip travelled on a very hot after- 
noon by strange trains and a strange carriage 
to a strange house, where he was welcomed 
by a strange nurse and — Lucy. 

" You won't mind going to stay at Peter's 
beautiful house without me, will you, dear?" 
Helen had asked. " Everyone will be kind 
to you and you'll have Lucy to play with." 

And Philip said he didn't mind. What 
else could he say, without being naughty and 
making Helen cry again ? 

Lucy was not a bit like the Sugar-Bread 
child. She had fair hair, it is true, and it was 
plaited in two braids, but they were very long 
and straight ; she herself was long and lean 
and had a freckled face and bright, jolly eyes. 

" I'm so glad you've come," she said, meet- 
ing him in front of a tall house whose low 
wings seemed to go on for ever ; " we can 
play all sorts of things now that you can't play 
when you're only one. I'm an only child," she 
added, with a sort of melancholy pride. Then 
she laughed. " * Only ' rhymes with c lonely,' 
doesn't it ? " she said. 

" I don't know," said Philip, with deliberate 
falseness, for he knew quite well. 

He said no more. 

Lucy tried two or three other beginnings 
of conversation, but Philip contradicted 
everything she said. 

" I'm afraid he's very, very stupid," she 
said to her nurse, an extremely trained nurse, 
who firmly agreed with her. And when her 
aunt came to see her next day, Lucy said 
that the little new boy was stupid, and 
disagreeable as well as stupid, and Philip 
confirmed this opinion of his behaviour to 
such a degree that the aunt, who was young 
and affectionate had Lucy's clothes packed 

at ■^i^tmfeiigiip r a few ^ 

visit. y 



So Philip and the nurse were left at the 
Grange. There was nobody else in the house 
but servants. And now Philip began to 
know what loneliness meant. The letters and 
the picture postcards which his sister sent 
every day from the odd towns on the 
Continent of Europe, which she visited on 
her honeymoon, did not cheer the boy. 
They merely exasperated him, reminding 
him of the time when she was all his own, 
and was too near to him to need to send 
him postcards and letters. 

The extremely trained nurse, who wore a 
grey uniform and white cap and apron, dis- 
approved of Philip to the depths of her well- 
disciplined nature. " Cantankerous little 
pig," she called him to herself. 

To the housekeeper she said : " He is an 
unusually difficult and disagreeable child. I 
should imagine that his education has been 
much neglected. He wants a tight hand." 

She did not use a tight hand to him, how- 
ever. She treated him with an indifference 
more annoying than tyranny. He had 
immense liberty of a desolate, empty sort. 
The great house was his to go to and fro in. 
But he was not allowed to touch anything in 
it The garden was his— to wander through, 
but he must not pluck flowers or fruit. He 
had no lessons, it is true ; but, then, he had 
no games either. There was a nursery, but 
he was not imprisoned in it — was not even 
encouraged to spend his time there. He was 
sent out for walks, and alone, for the park 
was large and safe. And the nursery was the 
room of all that great house that attracted 
him most, for it was full of toys of the 
most fascinating kind. A rocking-horse as 
big as a pony, the finest dolls' house you 
ever saw, boxes of tea-things, boxes of bricks 
— both the wooden and the terracotta sorts — 
puzzle maps, dominoes, chessmen, draughts, 
every kind of toy or game that you have ever 
had or ever wished to have. 

And Pip was not allowed to play with any 
of them. 

"You mustn't touch anything, if you 
please," the nurse said, with that icy polite- 
ness which goes with a uniform. "The 
toys are Miss Lucy's. No; I couldn't be 
responsible for giving you permission to 
play with them. No ; I couldn't think of 
troubling Miss Lucy by writing to ask her if 
you may play with them. No; I couldn't 
take upon myself to give you Miss Lucy's 

For Philip's boredom and his desire had 
humbled him even to the asking for this. 

For two whole days he lived at the Grange, 

hating it and everyone in it, for the servants 
took their cue from the nurse, and the child 
felt that in the whole house he had not a 
friend. Somehow he had got the idea firmly 
in his head that this was a time when Helen 
was not to be bothered about anything ; so 
he wrote to her that he was quite well, thank 
you, and the park was very pretty and Lucy 
had lots of nice toys. He felt very brave and 
noble, and like a martyr. And he set his 
teeth to bear it all. It was like spending a 
few days at the dentist's. 

And then suddenly everything changed. 
The nurse got a telegram. A brother who 
had been thought to be drowned at sea had 
abruptly come home. She must go to see him. 

" If it costs me the situation," she said to 
the housekeeper, who answered : — 

" Oh, well — go, then. I'll be responsible 
for the boy — sulky little brat." 

And the nurse went. In a happy bustle 
she packed her boxes and went. At the last 
moment Philip, on the doorstep watching her 
get into the dog-cart, suddenly sprang forward. 

" Oh, nurse ! " he cried, blundering against 
the almost moving wheel, and it was the 
first time he had called her by any name. 
" Nurse, do— do say I may take Lucy's toys 
to play with ; it is so lonely here. I may, 
mayn't I ? I may take them ? " 

Perhaps the nurse's heart was softened by 
her own happiness and the thought of the 
brother who was not drowned. Perhaps she 
was only in such a hurry that she did not 
know what she was saying. At any rate, 
when Philip said for the third time, " May I 
take them ?" she hastily answered : — 

" Bless the child ! Take anything you 
like. Mind the wheel, for goodness* sake. 
Good - bye, everybody ! " then waved her 
hand to the servants assembled at the front 
door, and was whirled off to joyous reunion 
with the undrowned brother. 

Philip drew a deep breath of satisfaction, 
went straight up to the nursery, took out all 
the toys, and examined every single one of 
them It took him all the afternoon. 

The next day he looked at all the things 
again and longed to make something with 
them. He was accustomed to the joy that 
comes of making things. He and Helen 
had built many a city for the dream island 
out of his own two boxes of bricks and 
certain other things in the house — her 
Japanese cabinet, the dominoes and chess- 
men, cardboard boxes, books, the lids of 
kettles and teapoti. Bint they had never had 
enough bricks* Lucy bad enough bricks for 



He began to build a city on the nursery 
table. But to build with bricks alone is poor 
work when you have been used to building 
with all sorts of other things. 

" It looks like a factory," said Philip, 
discontentedly* He swept the building down 
and replaced the bricks in theirdifferent boxes. 

" There must be something downstairs that 
would come in useful/' he told himself, "and 
she did say, ' Take what you like.' " 

By armfuls, two and three at a time, he 
carried down the boxes of bricks and the 
boxes of blocks, the draughts, the chessmen, 
and the box of dominoes. He took them 
into the long drawing-room where the crystal 
chandeliers were, and the chairs covered in 
brown holland — and the many long, light 
windows, and the cabinets and tables covered 
with the most interesting things. 

He cleared a big writing-table of such 
useless and unimportant objects as blotting- 
pad, silver inkstand, and red-backed books, 
and there was a clear space for his city. 

He began to build. 

A bronze Egyptian god on a black and 
gold cabinet seemed to be looking at him 
from across the room. 

"All right," said Philip. "Til build you 
a temple. You wait a bit." 

The bronze god waited and the temple 
grew, and two silver candle-sticks topped by 
chessmen served admirably as pillars for the 
portico. He made a journey to the nursery 
to fetch the Noak's Ark animals— the pair 
of elephants, each standing on a brick, flanked 
the entrance. It looked splendid, like an 
Assyrian temple in the pictures Helen had 
shown him. But the bricks, wherever he 
built with them alone, looked mean, and like 
factories, or work- houses. Bricks alone 
always do. 

Philip explored again. He found the 
library. He made several journeys. He 
brought up twenty-seven volumes bound in 
white vellum with marbled boards, a set of 
Shakespeare, ten volumes in green morocco. 
These made pillars and cloisters, dark, 
mysterious, and attractive. More Noah's 
Ark animals added an Egyptian -looking 
finish to the building. 

" Lor', ain't it pretty !" said the parlourmaid, 
who came to call him to tea. "You are 
clever with your fingers, Master Philip, I will 
say that for you. But you'll catch it, taking 
all them things." 

"That grey nurse said I might," replied 
Philip, "and it doesn't hurt things building 
with them. My sister and I always did it at 
home," he added, looking confidingly at the 

parlourmaid. She had praised his building* 
And it was the first time he had mentioned 
his sister to anyone in that house. 

" Well, it's as good as a peep-show," said 
the parlourmaid ; " it's just like them picture 
postcards my brother in India sends me. 
All them pillars and domes and things — and 
the animals too. I don't know how you fare 
to think of such things, that I don't." 

Praise is sweet.- He slipped his hand into 
that of the parlourmjid as they went down 
the wide stairs to the hall, where tea awaited 
him — a very little tray on a very big, dark 

" He's not half a bad child," said Susan at 
her tea in the servants' quarters. " That nurse 
frightened him out of his little wits with her 
prim ways, you may depend. He's civil 
enough if you speak him civil." 

"But Miss Lucy didn't frighten him, I 
suppose," said the cook; "and look how he 
behaved to her." 

" Well, he's quiet enough, anyhow. You 
don't hear a breath of him from morning till 
night," said the upper housemaid; "seems 
silly-like to me." 

"You slip in and look what he's been 
building, that's all," Susan told them. " You 
won't call him silly then. India an' pagodas 
ain't in it." 

They did slip in, all of them, when Philip 
had gone to bed. The building had pro- 
gressed, though it was not finished. 

" I sha'n't touch a thing," said Susan. 
"Let him have it to play with to-morrow. 
We'll clear it all away before that nurse 
comes back with her caps and her collars 
and her stuck-up cheek." 

So next day Philip went on with his build- 
ing. He put everything you can think of into 
it : the dominoes, and the domino-box — 
bricks and books— -cotton-reels that he begged 
from Susan, and a collar-box and some cake- 
tins contributed by the cook. He made steps 
of the dominoes and a terrace of the domino- 
box. He got bits of southern-wood out of 
the garden and stuck them in cotton-reels, 
which made beautiful pots — and they looked 
like bay trees in tubs. Brass finger-bowls 
served for domes, and the lids of brass 
kettles and coffee-pots from the oak dresser 
in the hall made minarets of dazzling splen- 
dour. Chessmen were useful for minarets, too. 

" I must have paved paths and a 
fountain," said Philip, thoughtfully. The 
paths were paved with mother-of-pearl card 
counters, and :he fountain was a silver and 
glass ash-tray, with a silver needlecase of 
filigree work rising up from the middle of it, 




and the falling water was made quite nicely 
out of narrow bits of the silver paper off the 
chocolate Helen had given him at parting. 
Palrn trees were easily made — Helen had 
shown him how to do that — with bits of larch 
fastened to elder stems with plasticine. There 
was plenty of plasticine among Lucy's toysj 
there was plenty of everything. 

And the city grew, till it covered the table. 
Philip, unwearied, set about to make another 
city on another table, This had for chief 
feature a great water-tower, with a fountain 
round its base, and now he stopped at 
nothing. He unhooked the crystal drops 
from the great chandeliers to make his 
fountains. This city was grander than the 
first. It had a grand tower made of a waste- 

VqL xxxlk* — Vj. 

paper basket and an astrologer's tower that 
was a photograph-enlarging machine. 

"I will keep it as It is till Helen comes. 
How she will love it ! " he said. 

The two cities were connected by a bridge 
which was a yard stick he had found in the 
servants' sewing- room and taken without 
hindrance, for by this time all the servants 
were his friends. Susan had been the first — 
that was all. 

He had just laid his bridge in place, and 
put Mr, and Mrs. Noah in the chief square 
to represent the inhabitants, and was stand- 
ing rapt in admiration of his work, when a 
hard hand on each of his shoulders made 

hir ? HfflvW&IWWWICHJGAN L , 

It was the nurse. She had come back a, 



day sooner than anyone expected her. The 
brother had brought home a wife, and she 
and the nurse had not liked each other; so 
she was very cross, and she took Philip by 
the shoulders and shook him, a thing which 
had never happened to him before. 

" You naughty, wicked boy ! " she said, 
still shaking. 

" But I haven't hurt anything — I'll put 
everything back," he said, trembling and 
very pale. 

" You'll not touch any of it again," said 
the nurse. " I'll see to that. I shall put 
everything away myself in the morning. 
Taking what doesn't belong to you ! " 

" But you said I might take anything I 
liked," said Philip, " so if it's wrong it's your 

" You untruthful child ! " cried the nurse, 
and hit him over the knuckles. Now, no 
one had ever hit Philip before. He grew 
paler than ever, but he did not cry, though 
his hands hurt rather badly. For she had 
snatched up the yard-stick to hit him with, 
and it was hard and cornery. 

" You are a coward," said Philip, "and 
it is you who are untruthful and not me." 

" Hold your tongue," said the nurse, and 
whirled him off to bed. 

" You'll get no supper, so there ! " she 
said, angrily tucking him up. 

"I don't want any," said Philip, "and 
I have to forgive you before the sun goes 

"Forgive, indeed!" said she, flouncing out. 

"When you get sorry you'll know I've 
forgiven you," Philip called after her, 
which, of course, made her angrier than 

Whether Philip cried when he was alone 
is not our business. Susan, who had watched 
the shaking and the hitting without daring to 
interfere, crept up later with milk and sponge- 
cakes. She found him asleep, and she says 
his eyelashes were wet. 

When he awoke he thought at first that it 
was morning — the room was so light But 
presently he saw ihat it was not yellow sun- 
light, but white moonshine which made the 
beautiful brightness. 

He wondered at first why he felt so un- 
happy, then he remembered how Hel^n had 
gone away and how hateful the nurse had 
been. And now she would pull down the 
city and Helen would never see it. And he 
would never be able to build such a beautiful 
one again. In the morning it would be gone 
and he would not be able even to remember 
how it was built, 

The moonlight was very bright. 

" I wonder how my city looks by moon- 
light ? " he said. 

And then, all in a thrilling instant, he 
made up his mind to go down and see for 
himself how it did look. 

He opened his door softly and crept along 
the corridor and down the broad staircase, 
then along the gallery and into the drawing- 
room. It was very dark, but he felt his way 
to a window and undid the shutter, and there 
lay his city, flooded with moonlight, just as 
he had imagined it. 

He gazed on it for a moment in ecstasy 
and then turned to shut the door. As he did 
so he felt a slight, strange giddiness and stood 
a moment with his hand to his head. He 
turned and went again towards the city, and 
when he was close to it he gave a little cry, 
hastily stifled, for fear someone should hear 
him and come down and send him to bed. 
He stood and gazed about him bewildered 
and, once more, rather giddy. For the city 
had, in a quick blink of light followed by 
darkness, disappeared. So had the drawing- 
room. So had the chair that had stood close 
to the table. He could see mountainous 
shapes raising enormous heights in the dis- 
tance, and the moonlight shone on the tops 
of them. But he himself seemed to be in a 
vast, flat plain. There was the softness of 
long grass round his feet, but there were no 
trees, no houses, no hedges or fences to 
break the expanse of grass. It seemed darker 
in some parts than others. That was all. It 
reminded him of the illimitable prairie of 
which he had read in books of adventure. 

" I suppose I'm dreaming," said Philip, 
" though I don't see how I can have gone to 
sleep just while I was turning the door- 
handle. However " 

He stood still expecting that something 
would happen. In dreams something always 
does happen, if it's only that the dream comes 
to an end. But nothing happened now — 
Philip just stood there quite quietly and felt 
the warm soft grass round his ankles. 

Then, as his eyes became used to the 
darkness of the plain, he saw some way off" a 
very steep bridge leading up to a dark height 
on whose summit the moon shone whitely. 
He walked towards it, and as he approached 
he saw that it was less like a bridge than a 
sort of ladder, and that it rose to a giddy 
height above him. It seemed to rest on a 
rock far up against dark sky, and the inside 
of the rock seemed hollowed out in one 

And now U? Q^&W4t\hc foot of the 



ladder It had no rungs, but narrow ledges 
made hold for feet and hands. Philip 
remembered jack and the Beanstalk, and 
looked ujj longingly ; but the ladder was a 
very, very long one, On the other hand, it 
was the only thing that seemed to lead any- 
where, and he had had enough of standing 
lonely in the grassy prairie, where he seemed 
to have been for a very long time indeed. So 
he put his hands and feet to the ladder and 
began to go up, It was a very long climb. 
There were two hundred and seventy-two 
steps, for he counted them. And the steps 
were only on one 
side of the ladder, 
so he had to be 
extremely careful. 
On he went, up and 
on, on and up, till 
his feet ached, and 
his hands felt as 
though they would 
drop off for tired- 
ness. He could not 
look up far, and he 
dared not look 
down at all. There 
was nothing for it 
but to climb and 
climb and climb, 
and at last he saw 
the ground on 
which the ladder 
/ested — a terrace 
hewn in regular 
lines, and, as it 
seemed, hewn from 
the solid rock. His 
head was level with 
the ground — now 
his hands T now his 
feet. He leaped 
sideways from the 
ladder and threw 
himself face down 
on the ground^ 
which was cold and 
smooth like marble. 
There he lay, draw- 
ing deep breaths of 
weariness and relief. 
There was a great 
silence all about, 

which rested and soothed, and presently he 
rose and looked about him. He was close to 
an archway with very thick pillars, and he 
went towards it and peeped cautiously in. It 
seemed to be a great gate leading to an open 
space, and beyond it he could see dim piles 
that looked like churches and houses. But 
all was deserted ; the moonlight and he had 
the place, whatever it was, to themselves. 

" I suppose everyone's in bed," said Philip, 
and stood there in his white nightgown 
trembling a little, but very curious and inter- 
ested, in the black shadow of the strange arch. 


(Tf be 

by Google 




[ We ska// he glad to rectivt Contributions to Ms section \ and to pay far suck as are accepted. ] 


IT appears e^sy to manipulate the fingers m iXl i ne 
manner shunn in ibe ph rtograph, I ml I have 
only seen one person who c^uld do it. It may amuse 
Some of your reudeis to aee if their finders ait flexible 
enough for ihe purpose-— Mr. A + U merman n- Wagner, 
40, Osnaburgh Street, ttegent's I'ark, N.W. 


THIS inviting little dwelling, as will lie seen on 
d'-sir scrutiny, is entirely compose*! of choco- 
lates, biscuits, etc. In r.ermany it is cusiomary to 
make such little Curiosities — as they would be con* 
.sitlered in this country— as presents for the children at 
Christinas-time.— Mr, C M, Uodwcll, St. Kevin's, 
72, Muswell Road, Muswell Hill, N. 

A 1 

LL that one needs to produce the startling 
appearance shown in the accompanying picture 
are five napkin -rings. The photograph is of one of 
my messmates who adopted this original method of 
sending his smalt nieces to I*ed when they became too 
troublesome*— A Naval Officer* 


HERE is a photograph of an ordinary tumbler, into 
which, after its being filled to the brim with 
water, I dropped considerably over two thousand 
pins, without spilling a drop of the water The bulge 
on the glass shows how the water has risen without 
falling over. 1 claim this to be a record, and thought 
you might £k"*Q|<W"HlllifilEOt»TlVour pages of Curiosi lies. 




THIS illustration, which almost explains itself, 
shows a grindstone made from an old bicycle 
and mounted on a box. As will be seen, the front 
wheel has been taken ofl" + It is quite an easy matter 
in get twelve hundred revolutions of the stone per 
minute. The machine was made by the gardener 
seen in the photograph, and is used by him for 
sharpen ing tools such as dippers , edging- irons, etc 
—Mr. T. A. Aldridge, 51, Alum Chine Road, 


THE following photograph shows a group of 
so-called •* microbes,*' which have afforded 
much amusement to the inmates of this establishment* 
In reality they are nothing more deadly than pieces 
of the roots or stems of heather, the natural grotesque- 
ness of which has been slightly accentuated by the use 
of a penknife — Mr. A. Clement, Kin^ Kdward VII. 
Sanatorium, Midlmrst- 


1^1 1 IS is a ponograph of a wonderful model 
£ui]]utinr made by a French prisoner confined 
in England during the Napoleonic wars at the etui of 
the eighteenth century. The wonder is increased 
when one realizes that the prisoner had only such l>eef 
bones as were thrown out from the soup cauldrons of 
L. prisoners' camp for his carving, though it has all 
the appearance of being fashioned in ivory. It is 
most intricate in detail. On the top tier lies the 

headless body of the victim, beneath 
is a tiny bucket stained with blood, 
and in it the head once lay, 
hut it has disappeared during the 
past century H On the second tier 
the executioner is at his post. On 
the bottom tier soldiers stand on 
guard. The marvellous elabora- 
tion and accuracy is perhaps not 
to l>e wondered at when one 
remembers {hat the gruesome 
scenes of the French Revolu- 
tion may have been enacted before 
that very prisoner's eyes. This 
model was made at the Norman 
Cross Barracks, which were speci- 
ally erected for these prisoners of 
\ war umf Peter bo rough, and is now 
in the r.h-il.MiM^h - 

; ERSfr"¥ 0F<?W^HM!ftM 11 . ! 3> London 
Road, St, Albans. 




HERE in South Africa, as in England, the rinking craze has taken a 
very firm hold, of ihe public. The photographs I am sending you 
represent a competitor in the fancy dress carnival held at the Glympia 
Skating Rink, Cape Town, This particular "get-up" carried off the 
prize for the most original costume- It is supposed to indicate the 
injuries sustained by an enthusiastic victim in his attempts to master 
the art of linking. Not the least amusing features of the costume are the 
curiously- worded labels. They describe in pseudo- medical terms the 
various fractures and dislocations which he suffered, and their composition 
shows the exercise of a very nimble wit. Needless to say, the costume 
aroused considerable merriment, which no doubt helped lo sustain the 
irize winner through what can hardly have been a comfortable evening. — 
\\u G. E, Harris, 18, De Lorentz Street, Cape Town, South Africa. 




I AM sending you a photo- 
graphy taken on September 
20th r 1909, t»f a fuchsia grow- 
ing in an ordinary poit bottle* 
The slip was planted in the 
bottle 111 August, 1907, being in- 
serted in a hole al>out the size of 
a florin* The following year it 
blossomed, and last year devel- 
oped a shoot from the neck of 
the bottle* As it attracted a 

good deal of attention at a flower 
show here I thought it might 
interest your readers. It cer- 
tainly suggests a new method of 
utilizing old bottles, and a num- 
ber of them with the plants in 
full bloom could be used with 
great effect in carrying out a 
novel and unusual scheme of 
decoration — Miss G* J* Light, 
Verandah Cottage, East Street, 
U rain tree. Essex. 


IN the spring of JS56 Mr. 
V, h. Ratline, of Lnckhart, 
Miss,, who is shown in the ac- 
companying photograph, placed 
the lioLird by which he is stand- 
ing betmen these two oak trees, 
which at that time were about 
ten inches in diameter. This 
board is at the present time — 
fifty- four years later — in a re- 
markable state of preservation, 
—Mr- L. M. Uarwood, Edi- 
PMlfttiftl Qfmmt trial Appeal^ 
In., U.S-A* 




WHEN digging up parsnips* carrots, etc., many 
quaint forms of grow I h are met with, 
especially when two or more roots grow together. 
The example here shown is more lhan usually curious. 
In the first picture the parsnips are seen to be carry- 
ing on a veritable struggle for life. The smaller 
parsnip, instead of growing bulky in the soil Like its 
fellow, has obviously developed strength instead % and 
this acquired strength it has apparently employed in 
a determined effort to strangle its neighbour. How 
far its effort has proved successful is shown in the 
second picture. The explanation of this curious 
growth has* I think, to be looked for at a very 
early stage in its history. When the seeds were 
set it is probable that several would germinate 
together, and that the bulky parsnip would be the 
middle one, and, perhaps, 
I he ftrst to germinate. 
The python parsnip would 
be a nealtby seedling next 
to it, endeavouring to get 
its root into the soil, and 
on account of being 
Crushed by the other 
germinating seedlings near 
it ihe root would naturally 
work round that of its 
larger fellow. Having 
completed the circle, 
matters would stand much 
the same as before, and 
consequently another 
circle would be made. 
Then the gardener thins 
out all but the largest 
plants- At this early stage 
he would fail to notice 
the little plant twisted 
round the larger one- 
Tben t ihe soil I wing 
ck-ared, the larger parsnip 
would grow apace, and 
(he helpless python par 

farther and farther 
into the soil as 
the big root in- 
creased in girth, 
In its struggle to 
get its developing 
leaves above the 
soi I it would 
necessarily have 
I" grip its larger 
neighbour firmly, 
and so it would 
l>e compelled to 
develop muscle in- 
stead of fat t as it 
were. — Mr* John 
J. Ward, Kusinurbe 
House, Somerset 
Road, Coventry, 


IT was only on 
my handing 
this photograph to 
several of my friends, who found some dim cully 
in making it out, that I noticed anything out of the 
common in it. !f held with C uppermost it looks 
like a long catling ; if with D upoemiost, like a huge 
staircase ; if held over the head if gives the appear- 
ance of chimney -scaffolding ; whilst again* if held on 
a level with one's waist and kept flat, it gives the 
appearance of 1 he opening to a mine or shaft ; if held 
with either A or B on the top it appears much the 
same in each position ; when neld in the proper way, 
with A on top, it represents the interior of the first 
gold-dredge built on this island or in Chile. The 
figure seated at the Jar end makes the solution far 
easier than it would otherwise be. — Mr. Alan 
AylwJDj Sociedad Ganadera de G elite Grande t 
Gente Grande, Tierra del Fuego. 





ERECTED chiefly with the idea of attracting 
the attention of likely settlers, this castle at 
koswell, New Mexico, was built of l>ales of alfalfa hay, 
and, as will be seen, made a most picturesque and 
realistic structure. Alfalfa is one of l he most profit 
able crops in that region, sometimes as many as fi\e 
cuttings being possible.— Mr. F, G + HodsolL 446, 
Strand, Loudun, W.C- 


St olck and EttffU'xk ZttwmtrrgE titni iritn Sules/ation Qt 
thir shorten mitichfortttl horni afultip* in ihi* fttttt 


erfina, 5 (Cemro] 



THINK the short 
example of muti- 
lated English I now 
send you is as good as 
any- you have published. 
I* llona" is M owner," 
while "past" stands lor 
11 part" ; but what the 
meaning of "se alch " 
may be is more than I 
can say. Possibly one 
of your readers may be 
able to decipher it. — 
Mr, Richard Walton, ss« 
Ara na t A I men a, Spai n* 


Solutions to the Puule< given last month. 

Two-Mo vkk by E, R CooK,^Ths solution to 
this little problem is, 1 P— Kt S (becoming a rook) 
and mate next move. White cannot promote the 
pawn to a Q, as Black would then be stale mated. 

Puzzle by Sign or Asi>a + — The solution is that 
you must replace the pawn on Black's K 3 and put 
a White R on White's KB 5. Black had taken this 
U with his P T but he must now move his K .and is 
then mated with the R- There is no other solution. 
If you suhsiiuued a Q for the R, Black would be 
stalemated ; and if you replaced the pawn on Kt 3, 
the R could not mate* 

Puzzle by W. Bone. — The four moves are <as 
follows j 1 Kt— Q 3, 2 Kt— Kt sq ch, 3 K moves, 
4 Kt — B 3 (discovered mate)* Black's moves are all 
forced, and, therefore, not given. White's first and 
second moves may be reversed , but this was not con- 
sidered a blemish at the lime the puzzle was composed. 

Puzzle by G. A. A. Walker,— The solution is: 
I B— Ki 3 eh, 1 P— Q 4, 2 P x P tn passant, mating 
all the six ktn^s. Note how that capture by the P 
discovers mate on four kings, and gives mate itself to 
the remaining two. 

" The Garden Wall," by II. B. Dudeney. — 
The solution is as follows : Black plays precisely the 
same moves as White, and therefore we give White's 
moves only. 

pu/7je is solved in this way : 1 R^yKi 8 ch, 2 R— 
K7 ch, 3 B^Kl 5 ch, 4 B^B 4 ch, 5 B— Q s ch, 6 
Q — KH 3 ch, and 7 P mates* Black's moves are all 

"The Eiffel Tower,*' by C + W, Wood.— The 
key move here is 1 O— K 2, preserving the symmetry 
of the arrangement. Whatever Black now plays, the 
While Queen mates next move. 

The Chess- Board Fallacy.— The explanation 
of this lii tie fallacy, given in Mr. Dudeney 's account 
of "The Paradox Parly" in our last issue, is as 
follows. The error lies in assuming that the little 
triangular piece, marked C, is exactly the same height 
as one of the little squares of the board. As a matter 


















\ B 



A ^ V 



1 Kt— KB 3! 5 Kt— Kt 6 

2 Ki— KRi ! 6 KtxB 

3 Kt— Kt 6 : 7 K x Kt 
4KtxK |HKt— QB 3 

9 Kt—R 4 

10 Kl-Kt6 

11 KtxR 

12 Kt— Kt6 

13 KtxB 

14 Kt () 6 

15 Q-K sq 

16 KtxQ 

17 K x Kt, and the position is reached. 
The puzzle cannot be solved in fewer than seven- 
teen moves, 

of fact, its height (if we make the sixty -four squares 
each a square inch) will be ifin. Consequently the 
rectangle is really of in, by /in., so that the area is 
sixty - four square inches in either case. Now, 
although the pieces do lit together exactly to form the 
perfect rectancle^vet the directions of the horizontal 
lines in the^tt^MlI'^IS coincide. The new 
dkgraykj^^^Titl.^^l^^Hg quile cIear to 
the reader. 



HAVE often 

thought that one 

of its heroines 

ought to write 

the story of one 

of the many 
romances of emigration in which 
five girls employed in a West- 
end draper's establishment took 
part. I myself happened to be 
one of the five t and if no parti- 
cular romance fell to my share, 
yet I had many interesting experiences before 
I returned to England to visit my surviving 
parent and — contrary to my expectations 
— marry and settle down in the land of 
my birth. 

No one who has not tried it knows the 
strain, the struggles, the temptations of a 
female shop-assistant in London 
— the long hoars, the bad light 
and ventilation, the perpetual 
standing, the trials to which 
customers subject us, the petty 
humiliations of the establish- 
ment I can look back dis- 
passionately upon it all now, 
and I dare say we were better 
off than many others. But 
nobody will be surprised when 
I tell ihem that the chief idea 
of our little coterie was to get 
rid of it all — to lift ourselves out of the rut* 
One of us received an invitation to a 
lecture at the Society of Arts by Lady Aber- 
deen, and she came back full of a tremendous 
new idea. We had frequently thought of 
domestic service in the Colonies or in America, 
where we could have good wages, our evenings 

Vol. xxnix — 16. 


to ourselves, a comfortable 
home, and where the class dis- 
tinctions were not so tightly 
drawn. But we had never quite 
known how to begin such a 
career, and we still lacked the 
funds to travel. But now we 
heard all about it- And I may 
add that we particularly heard 
of the wages received, and from 
that time forward the watch- 
word of the Beech Tree Club 
(as we called ourselves) was emigration 
to Canada, We kept our secret, and I 
could relate many stories of how we saved 
and pinched during the next year or so in 
order to raise all the money we needed, 
On September 22nd, 1902, we at last realized 
our wishes, and landed from the steamer at 
Montreal. A good many had 
advised against our going steer- 
age, but we were glad we had 
not taken their advice. Being 
a party we could keep to our- 
selves and look after ourselves, 
and we suffered not the slightest 

At Montreal we spent three 
days at the Y,W,C.A* home, 
and here our adventures —our 
real adventures — began. We 
wanted time to look about and 
decide in which part of Canada we should 
cast our lot. We hit upon Winnipeg, and 
heard that places could be at once obtained 
for us in good houses, where we would be 
paid sixteen dollars (three pounds five 
shillings) a , tlll^¥h? l ftffre" l two evenings off a 
weekJ^^illi'J&iW^'^ts to clean, 



and be regarded as 
one of the family. 

On the train we 
got acquainted with 
a middle aged man 
who dealt in real 
estate at Hailey- 
bury, Ontario* He 
seemed tremen- 
dously interested in 
us and showed one 
of us, whom I will call Gertrude, great atten- 
tion. He was a widower, and he had gone 
to Montreal to try to find a housekeeper to 
look after his place and his three small 
children. The upshot was that he offered 
Gertrude thirty dollars a month to take the 
situation. Gertrude said she dared not go 
alone ; whereupon the Haileybury gentleman 
explained that his old mother was living with 
him, although rather feeble, and that if 
Gertrude didn't like it after a month he 
would [jay her wages and her fare to Winni- 
peg. So, ultimately, the offer 
was accepted, and at N [pissing 
we said good-bye to Gertrude, 
wishing her the best of luck. 

Our adventures had begun in 
earnest, At Winnipeg we soon 
found the places we sought 
But we did not remain in them 
long, At the end of six months 
the first of the quartet (Emily) 
was a clerk in an hotel, having 
a knowledge of book-keeping. 
To this hotel there came in the summer of 
1904 a miner from the Klondike, who had 
been a mining engineer in Australia and was 
now very wealthy. He fell in love with the 
young lady, and in the autumn of that year he 
carried her away to Dawson City, Emily's 
adventures did not end there. Her husband 
sold out his interest in the Klondike and 
took her to Japan, There he met with an 
accident which caused his death, and last 
year Emily became the wife of an American 
officer in the Philippines, where she now 
(November, 1909) resides w T ith her two 

As for Catherine, the eldest of our party, 
after some most amusing experiences as an 
amateur cook, she was induced to go into 
partnership with an old lady, who opened a 
millinery shop in Edmonton and advertised 
her colleague as "late of the West-end, 
London." The business grew, and my friend 
might have made her fortune in course of 
time, only she herself received a handsome 
offer to open a similar shop in Cobalt J She, 

too, married finally a railway official "on the 
sure road to promotion, n as she wrote me 
last year. 

Then came Dolly, who took up mission 
work amongst the Indian tribes, and had 
some extraordinary experiences until she 
joined her fortunes to those of a Hudson 
Bay Company factor and settled down to a 
post in Saskatchewan, And I — what fate 
eventually overtook my poor self? As I said 
in the beginning, I had no romance as a maid 
in Canada. After a period in domestic 
service, during which I was promoted to 
parlourmaid, and finally to lady's-maid, in 
one of the wealthiest and best-known Winni- 
peg families, I tried my hand as governess 
to two children in Victoria. Honestly, I 
preferred waiting at table and washing the 
dishes ; and some of the happiest moments 
of my life were those I spent as a "help" 
in Winnipeg. 

I had abundant leisure for reading, of 
which I availed myself, and I went to church 
every Sunday. In four years 
I had rejected two offers of 
marriage and had saved nearly 
seven hundred dollars. With 
this I came home to England 
to see my dying mother, who 
had lately inherited a little 
money. There I met a cousin 
whom I had not seen since 
childhood, and— well, we were 
eventually married. As this 
cousin — now my husband — is a 
young barrister, beginning to be heard of in 
the world of the law, I do not think we shall 
emigrate just yet. 

But I do not consider my experiences as a 
41 lady help " in the Canadian West have made 
me a less competent, a less grateful, or a less 
loving wife than if I had been content with 
my companions to have stayed behind the 
West end draper's counter and eventually 
set up housekeeping — who knows? — with a 
City clerk, 

At any rate, I have told the story of 
the emigrating members of the Beech 
Tree Club faith- 
fully, and I 
hope, for their own 
sakes, that those 
who stayed behind 
at the drapery 
establishment re- 
sembled us in 
their luck and 

in their mariu.l 

wnyiriaT irui 


MSHIoas to Save MiEMutteSo 

Railway Building Extraordinary in the Rockies. 

PEN I) millions to save 
minutes." This is the 
watchword of the railway 
directing force of to-day, 
which has one hand on the 
present and the other on 
the future ; and when it is applied to a rail- 
way stretching for 3,600 miles across a 
continent its significance becomes far more 
potential* In such a mileage the contour 
of the country traversed necessarily under- 
goes constant variety. Stretches of prairie 
are intersected with yawning ravines and 
towering mountain ranges, and it is here 
that the question 
of "spe n ding 
millions to save 
minutes' 1 be- 
comes such a 
vital factor. 

In the early 
days of rranscon 
tinental expan- 
sion the policy 
was rather "to get 
through quickly 
and as cheaply as 
possible — never 
mind how, but 
do it/' The re- 
sult was that, in 
ordeT to save 

millions, the line meandered like a snake, 

described sharp curves, and switch backed up 

and down mountain slopes without paying 

the slightest attention to grades. Never mind 

if the banks were so heavy as to reduce a 

crack express's speed to a snail's crawl to get 

over them; engines could be retained here 

and there to give them a welcome boost and 

pu!l over the more difficult portions* Thus 

millions were saved in construction, but 

valuable minutes lost in transit owing to the 

drop in the train's speed and also its hauling 

capacity. As the years wore on and traffic 

increased these banks, curves, and tortuous 

windings were felt to be such a hindrance 

that heavy reconstruction and realignment 

works became imperative, and ran into more 

money than was actually expended upon the 

original construction. 

" See here. We do not intend to ballast 
this track with the half-consumed fuel belched 


from labouring locomotives as they climb 
over the mountains- They have got to rattle 
through the range at the same speed as over 
the prairie," This from the guiding spirit of 
the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway at last 
it was decided to provide an A 11- Red steel 
thread across the Dominion from Atlantic to 
Pacific. He had called together his engineers 
— the pick of the rail way- building brains of 
the New World — and was elaborating the 
project in hand. 

( * But the cost 1 *' one engineer interpolated, 

"Is a secondary consideration, 1 ' retorted 

the chief. u This line has got to earn revenue 

through every 
mile of its route, 
and we've got to 
give the farmer 
the lowest rates 
and the quickest 
service for the 
transhipment of 
his produce- To 
do so operating 
ex (lenses must be 
cut down to the 
minimum, and 
such is only pos- 
sible by your 
finding the path 
through the 
mountains which 
is not a bit heavier than the steepest bank 
on the plains." 

The engineers smiled. Such instructions 
had been issued before in connection with 
other transcontinental railways ; the same idea 
had been committed to paper, on which it 
appeared very attractive ; but when it came 
to wrestling with Nature on the spot those 
original ideas had made a very bad fit. To 
plan a thing and to carry it into execution 
among towering, closely- packed masses of 
mountains are two vastly different things, 
Those engineers knew that terrible, forbidding 
barrier fringing the Pacific seaboard, and how 
hopeless the task appeared. Rut the chief 
was inflexible, He had been too well drilled 
in the school of railway economics, knew 
how heavy grades eat into revenue, and that 
in such cases the farmers must make good the 
deficiency by paying higher rates. The pro- 
vision ckft'JiiV wlin^'f ' jgifcfltiChH&foH mountains 




which did not exceed so much was going to 
improve the prospects of the settlers' fortunes 
and the success of the railway by just so 
much. The lower the grade the cheaper he 
could haul wheat, and the cheaper he could 
achieve this end the greater would become 
the prosperity of the country through which 
the line was to pass. It was looking into the 
future with remarkable perception. So his 
engineers departed westward. For three years 
they were buried among the snow-capped, 
rugged peaks which stand sentinel over the 
Pacific Coast* The public chafed at the 
delay in building the railway suction, as it was 
called ; engineers laughed at the ambitions of 
the directing hand, and sarcastically asked 
whether he proposed to bury his engineers in 
the range; and rival railways ridiculed his 
proposals, for they had tried the same scheme 
themselves and had failed. But the chief 
was unperturbed -he had too firm a grip 
upon the situation. 

At last the long-expected message came : 
"We've found the one per cent, passage 
through the mountains." The chief smiled 
grimly, the public hailed the solution with 

delight, the engineering critics were silenced, 
and the news so perturbed the rival railway 
interests— and they foresaw the stern com- 
petition which was doomed to be raised 
against them — that they poured out millions 
towards putting their own railways in order, 
cutting out banks here and straightening 
curves there. The battle for supremacy in 
transcontinental railway traffic had com- 
menced. The farmers were the first to profit 
by the discovery. A stampede for land in 
the new wheat country just revealed ensued. 
The life- blood of the farmer is cheap and 
quick railway facilities, and these saw that 
the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway would 
give them such, whether it was to the 
Pacific or to the Atlantic Coast. What 
has been the result? Successful farmers 
in the Eastern States of Canada, anxious 
to acquire larger ranches, have hied west, 
wards; the expert farmers of the United 
States have forsaken their own country for 
the new El Dorado fringing the route of the 
Grand Trunk Pacific, A country' which for 
centuries has been the undisputed home of 

t HiiWfel^iFril!Tft3Hll lernes8 has been 



opened, and the red man 
has been driven still farther 
north to satisfy the hunger 
for land. Towns have sprung 
up like magic. A rude assort- 
ment of primitive shacks of 
one day have in the course 
of a few weeks blossomed 
into flourishing, growing 
towns with well laid streets, 
extensive commercial 
houses, trams, and the hun- 
dred-and-one other conveni- 
ences to be found in well-ap- 
pointed, centuries-old cities. 
The boundless prairie has 
been cut up like a gigantic 
cake, with the thin bond of 
steel running through its 
centre, and homesteads dot 
the country in all directions. 
The land, formerly a waste 
of luxurious dense grass, has been tilled and 
changed into an ocean of golden rolling 
corn. Westward is flowing a flood -tide of 
settlers, while eastward is running a rising 
river of wheat to the great centres where the 
precious grain is housed until, in response 
to the call of the European markets, it is 
shipped across the Atlantic. But will that 
river of grain always flow towards the 


Atlantic ? The farmers say no. The low 
grade through the mountains will enable 
them to deflect the current to the nearer 
Pacific much more cheaply than the long 
haul across the Continent, and that it will 
be more economic to ship to Europe from 
Prince Rupert either via Cape Horn, the 
Suez 'Canal, Isthmus of Panama, or the 
Tehuantepec Railway, When the Pacific 




port is brought into direct touch with the 
inner North-West, and the train service 
has been brought into full swing, then we 
will see a development in transportation 
such as has never been witnessed before. 
That rattle through the Rockies, with a rise 
of not more than 21 feet to the rnilt% whereby 
a huge modern locomotive will be able to 
haul its 2 p ooo-ton train of grain at the same 
speed as it would whirl over the vast prairies 
to the Atlantic, is the solution of a great 

And the engineers are to-day busy cutting t 
blasting, hewing, and digging their way 
through the mountains for the iron road. 
In a continuous string along the route busy 
hives of activity may be found. These are 
the construction camps. The way is hard 
and the going difficult, but it is being forced 
through peak, over rift, and up and down 
mountain slopes by 
dynamite and 
steam shovel. At ,_- 

wages ranging from 
eleven to four- 
teen shillings per 
day, armies of 
men, recruited 
from all parts of 
the world, are 
engaged in a 
titanic battle 
with Nature. The 
thin, sinuous road 
is rapidly approach- 
ing from the 
Atlantic seaboard, 
and the Pacific end 
is threading rapidly 
through the mountains to meet it. The 
sputter of steam, the hiss of compressed 
air, the monotonous tap -tap of the com- 
pressor drills, and the dull, intermittent 
roars of exploding dynamite tearing huge 
gaps in mountain flanks, followed by 
impressive rending, splitting, and crashing 
as the crumbled mass falls down the clifif- 
side, now disturb a peace and silence which 
has prevailed since the mountains were 
moulded by Nature. 

This resistless army is not advancing a foot 
at a time. It would not be contented with 
that The progress is counted by the mile. 
The heavy artillery of the railway-builder— 
the steam shovel— bites huge chunks, weigh- 
ing a ton or more at a time, out of the 
mountain- side, and dumps it into cars which 
are drawn by fussy locomotives to the end of 
the construction line and discharged over- 




board Here the graders with lightning-like 
rapidity level off and raise the embankment 
to the desired level. Hard on the heels of 
the graders rumbles the track laying plant, 
whereby the sleepers are laid and the rails 
set down on the prepared causeway by 
mechanical agency, and all the men have to 
do is to drive in the spikes and align the track 
as the machine passes forward. From three 
to five miles a day is the average advance of 
this machine, and it would go faster could 
the graders but prepare the permanent way 
for the reception of the metals at a greater 
speed. In the wake of the track -layer 
come the ballast trains, dumping the 
material which, when packed round the 
sleepers and rails, provides that solid, 
durable bed which conduces to fast, smooth 
travelling, and over which the heaviest 
trains can hurtle at tip- top speed. 

While the iron 
road is forcing its 
path irresistibly 
through the forest - 
clad mountains, 
hugging the 
Skeena River, 
other engineers 
are busy setting 
Prince Rupert 
into shipshape as 
a port, to fulfil 
the position 
which it is destined 
to occupy as one 
of the leading ship- 
ping points on the 
Pacific seaboard 
A garden city is 
being laid out. Wharves are rapidly spring- 
ing into existence along the water's edge 
to provide convenient and perfect anchorage 
for the vessels to take in Canada's wealth 
of grain for distant climes* Ten years ago 
the port did not boast a single shack; 
to-day streets radiate in all directions. 
The engineers are engaged upon a com- 
prehensive scheme of drainage, water supply, 
and lighting. Every foot of the harbour, 
from the landing -stages to a point well 
out to sea, is being surveyed, to indicate to 
navigators the channels by which the land- 
locked port can be gained in all weathers 
and at all tides, No effort is being spared 
to render the harbour in every way a fitting 
terminal to such an important highway as 
Canada's new transcontinental railway, and 
to be ready in every re^oect for the first train 

Pearfiiag in Queensland* 

HEN the poet spoke of the 
pearl as "imperial" he meant, 
of course, that it reigned in 
his heart amongst other gems + 
But nowadays we may speak of 
Imperial pearls, coming from 
thf wonderful Colony of Queensland. 

The pearl fisheries of Northern Australia 
are the most lucrative and the least 
understood of the world's fisheries, 
In years gone by diving was mostly 
carried on by naked divers in com- 
paratively shallow waters, but the use 
of the diving dress is now almost 
universal From 1901 to 1907, 
according to the returns published 
by the Commonwealth Statistician, 
4,640 tons of pearl shell alone were 
won from the Queensland fisheries, 
which were valued at about ^690,000. 
The profits of pearling are enormous. 
The wages of the divers range from 
j£i to £2 per month* and a " lay " 
of j£io on each ton of shell lifted. 
The pearling boats are worked from a 
schooner, and during the season, which lasts 
from April to November, only go ashore 
once in six weeks for firewood and water, 

The majority of pearlers maintain the 

closest secrecy concerning any pearls they 

discover — so many gems disappear in this 

way. This is made 

easy by the system 

under which the 

boats are worked. 

Every afternoon 

the mate from the 

schooner visits each 

pearling lugger and 

collects the shells, 

which are opened 

on board the 

schooner by the 

master of the vessel 

and the white men. 

The best pearls are 

generally found 

hanging in a small 

bag just inside the 

tips of the shell, 

and others of less 

value in the body 

Of the fish. The 

peark are sent to 

Lond6n and sold 

Privately. The 


pearlers prior to 1907 made no attempt to 
record the value of the pearls they obtained 
from the pearl shells, but it Is fully as great 
as that returned by the West Australian 

In Queensland, Torres Straits is the centre 
of production. Two distinct species of 
mother-of-pearl shell are exported* The 

principal trade is 
done in the large 
golden lipped shells 
found north of Ex- 
mouth Gulf. It is 
used for the larger 
articles, such as 
dessert and fish 
knife and fork 
handles, large but- 
tons, and inlaid 

Soon a bounty 
is to be offered 
for the establish- 
ment of a pearl-button manufactory in 
Queensland. One has already been estab- 
lished in New Caledonia, and the plant was 
so inexpensive that there is reason yet to 
believe that Queensland pearl buttons will 
replace the foreign article in the attire of 
the ladies of Britain. 



©wirse&s Wit &mA HuniMotuir 

A Prize of One Guinea is offered to readers of "The Strand Magazine" for ihe most Humorous Joke or 
Anecdote relating to life in the Colonies. They should be addressed to the Editor, Overseas Supplement* 

\A/HEN the price of wheat was down at 
" " Winnipeg a farmer objected to paying 
a shilling for the price of a shave* " Now 
that wheat is cheap/ 5 he said, "you ought to 
shave for half price/' 

" No, Mr. Bates," said the tonsorial artist, 
" I really ought to charge more ; for when 
the price of wheat is down, the farmers pull 
such long faces that I have twice the ground 
to go over*" 

"/^ALL him a kind man?" said one 
^ Rhodesian of another, " A man 

who has been away so long from his family 

in England and never sends them a farthing. 

Do you call that kindness ? !; 
" I do/ J was the retort ; 



""THAT is Mount Baillie, is 

■ it ?" remarked a stranger 
in British Columbia. 

"Yes, sir; highest mountain 
about here/' 

"Any story or legend con- 
nected with that mountain?" 

"Yes, lots of them. One of 
the most harrowing is about two 
lovers that went up that side of 
the mountain and never came 
down here again." 

t{ Indeed ! What became of 

"They went down on the 
other side," 

" Sir Wilfrid, do you know what is in that 
barrel ? " 

" Why, it's whisky, I presume," said Sir 

"No T not so/' said the Indian; "there's 
about a thousand songs and fifty fights in 
that barrel" 

1 ORD RANFURLY once had some 
^ shirts made at a Sydney haberdasher's, 
A few weeks later the haberdasher (a 
rather distinguished-looking man) and the 
Proconsul were thrown together on board 
the New Zealand steamer. Lord Ranfurly 
remembered the face, but could not place it* 
"Good morning, my lord. Fine weather, 
isn't it ? " began the other ; and as the peer 
extended his hand, with a look 
of perplexity, the haberdasher 
murmured, "Made your shirts, 
my lord." 

"Of course," cried the new 
Governor, and turning to his 
aide-de-camp he presented him, 
" Captain B— — , allow me to 
present Major Schurz ! " 



I HEY tell in Tasmania of a man who 
* resolved to leave the Colony after a 
year's residence. 

"The fact is/' he said, "I have always 
really enjoyed living in an unhealthy climate*" 

" That's very odd," remarked a listener at 
the hotel at Hobart " What's the reason?", 

"Well, I rather think/' responded the 
venerable and benei r olent old gentleman, 
" that it's because Tin a physician." 

CIR WILFRID LAURIER tells a story of 
^ being present on one occasion at an 
Indian talk, when a man drove up with a 
barrel of whisky. An old Indian who was 
sitting by fixed his eye on the barrel and, 
after looking earnestly for some time, 

Australian school-teacher 
once had a clever young 
sheep rancher for a pupil His 
peculiarity was that he could not 
pronounce the letter "r," and 
at last the lady concocted a 
couplet which she enjoined he 
should read out before the 
whole class : — 
Robert gave Richard a rap jn the ribs 
For roasting the rabbit so rare< 
But the pupil was determined not to make 
an exhibition of himself, and when the time 
came he boldly stood up and delivered 
himself of the following : — - 

Bobby pave Dicky a thump in the side 
For cooking the bunny SO little. 

"\A/HAT are these cups for?" asked a 
* * well-dressed man in Cape Town of 

a jeweller, pointing to some elegant silver 

cups on the show-case. 

"These are race-cups, to be given as 

prizes to the best racer." 

"If that's so f suppose you and I race for 

one/ 1 and the stranger, with the cup in hand, 

started, the jeweller after him. The stranger 





■ •" v ■ ■ - 

-■■-,. ;. 

yusr Lovely" 








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Growing Wheat for Profit 

:: IN 


Simple Arithmetic. 

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4 * * # * 

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Ploughing Stubble 


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Cutting ..* 


Binder Twine ,.. 


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2 7 

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Correnpoytderif deriring iaforruntion m any form of Imwrance tkould 
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fi. SoHthamf4<»i .stt-eet. Stmnd. London. A fCnmiml and addre&ed 
euveloi* should lw e»ch>wi. dud in the cntt of Lift ftutumnce vr 
Annmtie* the exact ape of the />r*>/ ■©*<??- ithonhi be ttated. 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 



n [ IS* pap hi.) 



Vol. xxxix. 

FEBRUARY, 1910. 

No. 230. 


A.E.¥ Mason 

At the baccarat tables at Aix-les- Bains Julius Ricardo saw a girl talking to the holder of the bank, in 
whom he recognized with surprise an English acquaintance named Harry Wethermill. The girl, Celia 
Harland, he remembered having seen as a medium at a spiritualistic performance in an English town. 
Wethermill and Celia, after a run of bad luck, left the tables together, meeting at the entrance Mme. 
Dauvray, famous in Aix for her jewels, to whom Celia acted as companion. Two days later Wethermill 
burst into Ricardo's dressing-room with a morning paper announcing the murder of Mme. Dauvray at her 
residence, the Villa Rose. Her maid, H^lene Vauquier, had been found in bed chloroformed, while Celia had 
disappeared. It had also been ascertained that Mme. Dauvray's motor-car was missing. 

Hanaud, one of the best French detectives, enjoying a holiday at Aix, was known slightly to both Ricardo 
and Wethermill, and the latter persuaded his friend to seek the help of the detective. The three thereupon 
went down to the Villa Rose, accompanied by Perrichet, the scrgcnt-dc-villc who discovered the crime, and 
Hanaud at once began a thorough examination of the premises. Meanwhile the police had discovered that 
on the previous evening Celia had bought some cord similar to that found knotted round Mme. Dauvray's neck. 



NURSE opened the door. 
Hetene Vauquier was leaning 
back in a chair. She looked 
ill ; her face was very white. 
On the appearance of Hanaud, 
the Commissaire, and the 
others, however, she rose to her feet. Ricardo 
recognized the justice of Hanaud's descrip- 
tion. She stood before them a hard-featured, 
tall woman of thirty-five or forty, in a neat 
black stuff dress, strong with the strength of 
a peasant, respectable, reliable. She looked 
what she had been, the confidential maid of 
an elderly woman. But on her face there 
was an aspect of eager appeal. 

" Oh, monsieur ! " she began. " Let me 
go from here — anywhere— into prison if you 
like. But to stay here — where in years past 
we were so happy — and with madame lying 
in the room below. No, it is insupportable." 
She sank into her chair, and Hanaud 
came over to her side. " Yes, yes," he said, 
in a soothing voice. " I can understand 
your feelings, my poor woman. We will not 
keep you here. You have, perhaps, friends 
in Aix with whom you could stay ? " 

" Oh, yes, monsieur ! " H£tene cried, 
gratefully. " Oh, but I thank you ! That 
I should have to sleep here to-night ! Oh, 
how that has frightened me ! " 

" You need have had no such fear. After 

Vol xxxix.— 17. Copyright, 19 10, by 

all, we are not the visitors of last night," 
said Hanaud, drawing a chair close to 
her and patting her hand sympathetically. 
"Now, I want you to tell these gentlemen 
and myself all that you know of this dreadful 
business. Take your time, mademoiselle ! 
We are human." 

"But, monsieur, I know nothing," she 
cried. " I was told that I might go to bed 
as soon as I had dressed Mile. Celie for the 

" Stance ! " cried Ricardo, startled into 
speech. The picture of the Assembly Hall 
at Leamington was again before his mind, 
But Hanaud turned towards him, and, though 
Hanaud's face retained its benevolent expres- 
sion, there was a glitter in his eyes which 
sent the blood into Ricardo's face. 

" Did you speak, M. Ricardo ? " the detec- 
tive asked. " No ? I thought it was not 
possible." He turned back to Helfene 
Vauquier. " So Mile. C^lie practised stances. 
That is very strange. We will hear about 
them. Who knows what thread may lead us 
to the truth ? " 

H^lene Vauquier shook her head. 

" Monsieur, it is not right that you should 
seek the truth from me. For, consider this ! 
I cannot speak with justice of Mile. C^lie. 
No, I cannot ! 1 did not like her. I was 
jealous — yes, jealous. Monsieur, you want 
the truth — i hated her !" and the woman's 
face flushed and she clenched her hand upon 

A. E. W. Mason. 




the arm of her chair, u Yes, I hated her. 
How could I help it ?" she asked, 

"Why?" asked Hanaud, gently, "Why 
could you not help it ?" 

Helenc Vauquier leaned back again and 
smiled weakly. 

t( Hear me, and you shall know. But 
remember it is a woman speaking to you, 
and things which you will think silly and 
trivial mean very much to her There was 
one night last June— only last June! To 
think of it ! So little while ago there was no 
Mile. Celie- " and, as Hanaud raised his 

hand, she said 
hurriedly, " Yes, 
yes ; I will control 
myself- But to 
think of Mme 
Dauvray now ! jJ 

And thereupon 
she blurted out the 
story which ex- 
plained to Mr. 
Ricardo the ques- 
tion which had 
so perplexed him : 
how a girl of so 
much distinction 
as Celia Harland 
came to be living 
with a woman of 
so common a type 
as Mme. Dauvray. 
"Well, one 
night in June/ 1 said 
Helene Vauquier, 
(( madame went 
with a party to 
supper at the 
Abbaye Restaurant 
in Mont mart re. 
And she brought 
home for the first 
time Mile. Celie. 
But you should 
have seen her ! She 
had on a little 
plaid skirt and a 
coat • which were 
fill ling to pieces — 
and she was starv- 
ing. Madame told 
me the story that 
night as I un- 
diessed her. Mile. 
Celie was there 
dancing amidst 
the tables for a 
supper with any- 
one who would be kind enough to dance 
with her.'* 

The scorn of her voice rang through the 
room. She was the rigid, respectable peasant 
woman, speaking out her contempt. And 
Wethermill must needs listen to it. Ricardo 
dared not glance at him. 

" And madame brought her home/' she 
continued, " Madame was so kind, so care- 
less in her kindness. And now she lies 
murdered for. a. reward!" An hysterical sob 
checked hVf ' SVftMinfces, her face began to 

h /*t* At«i i f tk ' N 



" Come, come ! " said Hanaud, gently* 
"Calm yourself, mademoiselle." 

H£lfcne Vauquier paused for a moment or 
two to recover her composure. " I beg your 
pardon, monsieur, but I have been so long with 
madame — oh, the poor woman ! Yes, yes, 
I will calm myself. Well, madame brought 
her home, and in a week there was nothing 
too good for Mile. C£lie. Madame was 
like a child. Always she was being deceived 
and imposed upon. Never she learnt pru- 
dence. But no one so quickly made her 
way to madame's heart as Mile. C£lie. 
Mademoiselle must live with her. Made- 
moiselle must be dressed by the first 
modistes. Mademoiselle must have lace 
petticoats and the softest linen, long white 
gloves, and pretty ribbons for her hair, and 
hats from Caroline R£boux at twelve hun- 
dred francs. And madame's maid must 
attend upon her and deck her out in all 
these dainty things. Bah ! " 

Vauquier was sitting erect in her chair, 
violent, almost rancorous with anger. She 
looked round upon the company and 
shrugged her shoulders. 

" I told you not to come to me ! " she said. 
"I cannot speak impartially or even gently 
of mademoiselle. * Consider ! For years I 
had been more than madame's maid — her 
friend ; yes, so she was kind enough to call 
me. She talked to me about everything, con- 
sulted me about everything, took me with her 
everywhere. Then she brings home, at two 
o'clock in the morning, a young girl with a 
fresh, pretty face from a Montmartre restau- 
rant, and in a week I am nothing at all — 
oh, but nothing— and mademoiselle is queen." 

"Yes, it is quite natural," said Hanaud, 
sympathetically. " You would not have been 
human, mademoiselle, if you had not felt 
some anger. But tell us frankly about these 
stances. How did they begin ?" 

"Oh, monsieur," Vauquier answered, "it 
was not difficult to begin them. Mme. 
Dauvray had a passion for fortune-tellers and 
rogues of that kind. Anyone with a pack of 
cards and some nonsense about a dangerous 
woman with black hair or a man with a 
limp. Monsieur knows the stories they string 
together in dimly lighted rooms to deceive 
the credulous — anyone could make a harvest 
out of madame's superstitions. But mon- 
sieur knows the type." 

" Indeed I do," said Hanaud, with a laugh. 

"Well, after mademoiselle had been with 
us three weeks, she said to me one morning 
when I was dressing her hair that it was a 
pity madame was always running round the 

fortune-tellers, that she herself could do 
something much more striking and impressive, 
and that if only I would help her we could 
keep madame out of their hands. Sir, I 
did not think what power I was putting into 
Mile. C&ie's hands, or assuredly I would have 
refused. I did not wish to quarrel with Mile. 
C£lie ; so for once I consented, and after- 
wards I could not refuse, for, if I had, 
mademoiselle would have made some fine 
excuse about the psychic influence not being 
en rapport And if I had confessed the 
truth to madame, she would have been so 
angry that I had been a party to tricking her 
that I would have lost my place. And so 
the stances went on." 

" Yes," said Hanaud. " I understand that 
your position was very difficult. We shall 
not, I think," and he turned to the Commis- 
saire confidently for corroboration of his 
words, " be disposed to blame you." 

"Certainly not," said the Commissaire. 
" After all, life is not so easy." 

"Thus, then, the seances began," said 
Hanaud, leaning forward with a keen interest. 
" This is a strange and curious story you are 
telling me, Mile. Vauquier. Now, how were 
they conducted ? How did you assist ? 
What did Mile. C&ie do? Rattle tam- 
bourines in the dark and rap on tables?" 

There was a gentle and inviting irony in 
Hanaud's tone. 

"Oh, monsieur, that was nothing," cried 
H^lene. " She would make spirits appear, 
and speak ! " 

" Really ! And she was never caught 
out ! But Mile. Celie must have been a 
remarkably clever girl." 

" Oh, she was of an address which was 
surprising. Sometimes madame and I were 
alone. Sometimes there were others, whom 
madame in her pride had invited. For she 
was very proud, monsieur, that her com- 
panion could introduce her to the spirits of 
dead people. But never was Mile. Celie 
caught out. She told me that for many years, 
even when quite a child, she had travelled 
through England giving these exhibitions." 

" Oho ! " said Hanaud, and he turned to 
Wethermill. " Did you know that ? " he 
asked in English. 

" I did not," he said. " I do not now." 

Hanaud shook his head. 

" To me this story does not seem invented," 
he replied. And then he spoke again in 
French to Helene Vauquier. "Well, con- 
tinue, mademoiselle ! Assume that the com- 
pany is as^mbfed for our stance." 

"Then Mile, Cflie dressed in a long 



gown of black velvet, which set off her 
white arms and shoulders well — oh, made- 
moiselle did not forget those little trifles," 
Helfene Vauquier interrupted herself, with a 
return to her bitterness, to interpolate— 
"mademoiselle would sail into the room with 
her velvet train flowing behind her, and 
perhaps for a little while she would say there 
was a force in the room working against her, 
and she would sit silent in a chair while 
madame gaped at her with open eyes. At last 
mademoiselle would say that the powers were 
favourable and the spirits would manifest 
themselves tonight Then she would be 

placed in a cabinet, perhaps, with a string tied 
across the door outside — you will understand 
it was my business to see after the string — 
and the lights would be turned down, or 
perhaps out altogether. Or at other times 
we would sit holding hands round a table, 
Mile. Cdie between Mma Dauvmy and my- 
self. But in that case the lights would be 
turned out first and it would be my hand 
which held Mme. Dauvray's, And whether 
it was the cabinet or the chairs, in a moment 
mademoiselle would be creeping silently 
about the room in a little pair of soft 
slippers without heels, which she wore so 

SHB WOC LI) SAY THERfc WAS A KOKCE IN THE ||i{#'l<EPl^^^MI ! 0M ! l€.'M4^'* 



that she might not be heard, and tam- 
bourines would rattle, and fingers touch the 
forehead and the neck, and strange voices 
would sound from corners of the room, and 
dim apparitions would appear — the spirits 
of great ladies of the past, who would talk 
with Mme. Dauvray. Such ladies as Mme. 
de Castiglione, Marie Antoinette, Mme. 
de Medici — I do not remember all the 
names. Then the voices would cease and the 
lights be turned up, and Mile. C£lie would be 
found in a trance just in the same place and 
attitude as she had been when the lights 
were turned out. Imagine, messieurs, the 
effect of such stances upon a woman like 
Mme. Dauvray. She was made for them. 
She believed in them implicitly. The 
words of the great ladies from the past — 
she would remember and repeat them, and 
be very proud that such great ladies had 
come back to the world merely to tell her — 
Mme. Dauvray — about their lives. She 
would have had stances all day, but Mile. 
C^lie pleaded that she was left exhausted at 
the end of them. But Mile. C£lie was of an 
address ! For instance, it will seem very 
absurd and ridiculous to you, gentlemen, but 
you must remember what Mme. Dauvray 
was. For instance, madame was particularly 
anxious to speak with the spirit of Mme. de 
Montespan. Yes, yes! She had read all' 
the memoirs about that lady. Very likely 
Mile. C^lie had put the notion into Mme. 
Dauvray's head. For madame was not a 
scholar. But madame was dying to hear 
that famous woman's voice and to catch a 
dim glimpse of her face. Well, she was 
never gratified. Always she hoped. Always 
Mile. C^lie tantalized her with the hope. 
But she would not gratify it. She would 
not spoil her fine affairs by making 
these treats too common. And she 
acquired— how should she not? — a power 
over Mme. Dauvray which was unassail- 
able. The fortune-tellers had no more to 
say to Mme. Dauvray. She did nothing but 
felicitate herself upon the happy chance 
which had sent her Mile. Celie. And now 
she lies in her room murdered ! " 

Once more Heine's voice broke upon the 
words. But Hanaud poured her out a glass 
of water and held it to her lips. 

44 There, that is better, is it not ? " he said. 

44 Yes, monsieur," said Helene Vauquier, 
recovering herself. "Sometimes, too, messages 
from the spirits would flutter down in writing 
on the table." 

44 In writing ?" exclaimed Hanaud, quickly. 

44 Yes; answers to questions. Mile. C£lie 

had them ready. Oh, but she was of an 
address altogether surprising." 

"I see," said Hanaud, slowly; and he 
added, "But sometimes, I suppose, the 
questions could not be answered? What 
happened then?" 

H£fene Vauquier smiled. 

" It was all one to Mile Celie. In that 
case the spirits were not allowed to answer, 
and a spirit-writing floated down in the dark- 
ness to that effect It was not easy to baffle 
her, I can tell you. She carried a lace scarf 
which she could drape about her head, and 
in a moment she would be, in the dim light, 
an old, old woman, with a voice so altered 
that no one could know it, Indeed, you 
said rightly, monsieur. She was clever." 

To all who listened, H&fene Vauquier's 
story carried its conviction. Mme. Dauvray 
rose vividly before their minds as a living 
woman. Celia's trickeries were so glibly 
described that they could hardly have been 
invented, and certainly not by this poor 
peasant-woman whose lips so bravely struggled 
with Medici, and Montespan, and the names 
of the other great ladies. How, indeed, 
should she know of them ? She could never 
have had the inspiration to concoct the most 
convincing item of her story — the queer craze 
of Mme. Dauvray for an interview with Mme. 
de Montespan. These details were the truth. 

Ricardo, indeed, knew them to be true. 
Had he not himself seen the girl in her 
black velvet dress shut up in a cabinet, and 
a great lady of the past dimly appear in the 
darkness ? Moreover, H&fene Vauquier 5 
jealousy was so natural and inevitable a 
thing. Her confession of it corroborated 
her story. 

44 Well, then," said Hanaud, " we come to 
last night. There was a stance held in the 
salon last night." 

44 No, monsieur," said Vauquier, shaking 
her head ; " there was no stance last night." 

44 But already you have said ," inter- 
rupted the Commissaire; and Hanaud held 
up his hand. 

44 Let her speak, my friend." 

44 Yes, monsieur shall hear," said Vauquier. 

It appeared that at five o'clock in the 
evening Mme. Dauvray and Mile. C^lie 
prepared to leave the villa on foot. It was 
their custom to walk down at this hour to 
the Villa des Fleurs, pass an hour or so there, 
dine in a restaurant, and return to the Rooms 
to spend the evening. On this occasion, how- 
ever, Mme. Dauvray informed H^lfene that 
they should b-j back early and bring with them 
a frieiul *hc vras iircer<;:ited in, but entirely 



sceptical of, spiritualistic manifestations. 
" But we shall convince her to-night, C£lie," 
she said, confidently; and the two women then 
went out. Shortly before eight H^lfene closed 
the shutters both of the upstair and the 
downstair windows and of the glass doors 
into the garden, and returned to the kitchen, 
which was at the back of the house — that 
is, on the side facing the road. There had 
been a fall of rain at seven which had lasted 
for the most part of the hour, and soon 
after she had shut the windows the rain 
fell again in a heavy shower, and Helene, 
knowihg that madame felt the chill, lighted a 
small fire in the salon. The shower lasted 
until nearly nine, when it ceased altogether 
and the night cleared up. 

It was close upon half-past nine when the 
bell rang from the salon. Vauquier was sure 
of the hour, for the charwoman called her 
attention to the clock. 

"I found Mme. Dauvray, Mile. C^lie, and 
another woman in the salon," continued 
H£fene Vauquier. " Madame had let them 
in with her latchkey." 

" Ah, the other woman ! " cried Besnard. 
" Had you seen her before ? " 

" No, monsieur." 

" What was she like ? " 

"She was sallow, with black hair and 
bright eyes like beads. She was short and 
about forty-five years old, though it is difficult 
to judge of these things. I noticed her 
hands, for she was taking her gloves off, 
and they seemed to me to be unusually 
muscular for a woman." 

" Ah ! " cried Louis Besnard. " That is 

" Mme. Dauvray was, as she always was 
before a stance, in a feverish flutter. 'You 
will help Mile. Celie to dress, Helene, and be 
very quick,' she said ; and with an extra- 
ordinary longing, * Perhaps we shall see her 
to-night.' Her, you understand, was Mme. 
de Montespan, and she turned to the stranger 
and said, * You will see, Adele ! ' " 

"Adfele!" said the Commissaire, wisely. 
"Then Adele was the strange woman's 
name ? " 

" Perhaps," said Hanaud, dryly ; " but go 
on, Mile. Vauquier." 

"The lady sat upright and squarely upon 
the edge of a chair with a sort of defiance, as 
though she were determined nothing should 
convince her, and she laughed incredulously." 

Here, again, all who heard were able 
vividly to conjure up the scene— the defiant 
sceptic sitting squarely on the edge of her 
chair, removing her gloves from her muscular 

hands ; the excited Mme. Dauvray, so 
absorbed in the determination to convince ; 
and Mile. C£lie running from the room to 
put on the black gown which would not be 
visible in the dim light. 

" Whilst I took off mademoiselle's dress," 
Vauquier continued, " she said : ' When I 
have gone down to the salon, you can go to 
bed, H^lfene. Mme. AdMe will be fetched by 
a friend in a motor-car, and I can let her out. 
So if you hear the car you will know that it 
has come for her.'" 

" Oh, she said that ! " said Hanaud, 

" Yes, monsieur." 

Hanaud looked gloomily towards Wether- 
mill. Then he exchanged a sharp glance 
with the Commissaire, and moved his 
shoulders in an almost imperceptible shrug. 
But Mr. Ricardo saw it, and construed it 
into one word. He imagined a jury uttering 
the word " Guilty." 

Helfene Vauquier saw the movement too. 

" Do not condemn her too quickly, 
monsieur," she said. " And not upon my 
words. For, as I say, I — hated her." 

"I was surprised," she resumed, "and I 
asked mademoiselle what she would do with- 
out her confederate. But she laughed and 
said there would be no difficulty. That is 
partly why I think there was no stance last 
night. Monsieur, there was a note in her 
voice that evening which I did not as yet 
understand. Mademoiselle then took her 
bath while I laid out her black dress and the 
slippers with the soft, noiseless soles. And 
now I tell you why I am sure there was no 
stance last night — why Mile. Celie never 
meant there should be one." 

" Yes, let us hear that," said Hanaud, 
curiously, and leaning forward with his hands 
upon his knees. 

" You have here, monsieur, a description 
of how mademoiselle was dressed when she 
went away." Helene Vauquier picked up a 
sheet of paper from the table at her side. 
" I wrote it out at the request of M. le 
Commissaire." She handed the paper to 
Hanaud, who glanced through it as she con- 
tinued. " Well, except for the white lace 
coat, monsieur, I dressed Mile. C^lie just in 
that way. She would have none of her 
plain black robe. No, Mile. Celie must 
wear her fine new evening frock of pale 
reseda-green chiffon over soft clinging satin, 
which set off her fair beauty so prettily. It 
left her white arms and shoulders bare, and it 
had a long train, and X rustled as she moved. 
And wit'h tha.t 1. rnusl i^MHJn her pale green 



silk stockings, her new little satin slippers to 
match, with the high heels and the large 
paste buckles — and a sash of green satin 
looped through another glittering buckle at 
the side of the waist, with long ends loosely 
knotted together at the knee. I must tie her 
fair hair with a silver ribbon, and pin upon 
her curls a large hat of reseda green with a 
golden-brown ostrich feather drooping behind. 
I warned mademoiselle that there was a tiny 
fire burning in the salon. Even with the fire- 
screen in front of it there would still be a 
little light upon the floor, and the glittering 
buckles on her feet would betray her, even 
if the rustle of her dress did not. But 
she said she would kick her slippers off. Ah, 
gentlemen, it is, after all, not so that one 
dresses for a stance," she cried, shaking her 
head. "But it is just so— is it not? — that 
one dresses to go to meet a lover." 

The suggestion startled everyone who heard 
it. It fairly took Mr. Ricardo's breath away. 
Wethermill stepped forward with a cry of 
revolt. The Commissaire exclaimed, admir- 
ingly, " But here is an idea ! " Even 
Hanaud sat back in his chair, though his 
expression lost nothing of its impassivity, 
and his eyes never moved from H^tene 
Vauquier's face. 

*' Listen ! " she said. " 1 will tell you 
what I think. It was my habit to put out 
some sirop and lemonade and some little 
cakes in the dining-room, which, as you 
know, is at the other side of the house. I 
think it possible, messieurs, that while Mile. 
C£lie was changing her dress Mme. Dauvray 
and the stranger, Adele, went into the 
dining-room. I know that Mile. Celie, as 
soon as she was dressed, ran downstairs to 
the salon. Well, then, suppose Mile. C^lie 
had a lover waiting with whom she meant to 
runaway. She hurries through the empty salon, 
opens the glass doors, and is gone, leaving 
the doors open. And the thief, an accom- 
plice of Adfele, finds the doors open and hides 
himself in the salon until Mme. Dauvray 
returns from the dining-room. You see, that 
leaves Mile. Celie innocent." 

Vauquier leaned forward eagerly, her white 
face flushing. There was a moment's silence,, 
and then Hanaud said : — 

"That is all very well, Mile. Vauquier. 
But it does not account for the lace coat 
in which the girl went away. She must have 
returned to her room to fetch that after you 
had gone to bed." 

Helene Vauquier leaned back with an air 
of disappointment 

" That is true. I had forgotten the cloak. 

YqU xxxyu-18. 

I did not like Mile. C&ie, but I am not 
wicked " 

" Nor for the fact that the sirop and the 
lemonade had not been touched in the 
dining-room," said the Commissaire, inter- 
rupting her. Again the disappointment over- 
spread Vauquier's face. 

"Is that so?" she asked. "I did not 
know — I have been kept a prisoner here." 

The Commissaire cut her short with a cry 
of satisfaction. 

" Listen ! listen ! " he exclaimed, excitedly, 
" Here is a theory which accounts for all, 
which combines Vauquier's idea with ours, 
and Vauquier's idea is, I think, very just, up 
to a point. Suppose, M. Hanaud, that the 
girl was going to meet her lover, but the 
lover is the murderer. Then all becomes 
clear. She does not run away to him ; she 
opens the door for him and lets him in." 

Both Hanaud and Ricardo stole a glance 
at Wethermill. How did he take the theory ? 
Wethermill was leaning against the wall, his 
eyes closed, his face white and contorted 
with a spasm of pain. But he had the air of 
a man silently enduring an outrage rather 
than struck down by the conviction that the 
woman he loved was worthless. 

" It is not for me to say, monsieur," 
H&fene Vauquier continued. " I only tell 
you what I know. I am a woman, and it 
would be very difficult for a girl who was 
eagerly expecting her lover so to act that 
another woman would not know it. How- 
ever uncultivated and ignorant the other 
woman was, that at all events she would 
know. The knowledge would spread to her 
of itself, without a word. Consider, gentle- 
men!" And suddenly H^lfcne Vauquier 
smiled. " A young girl tingling with excite- 
ment from head to foot, eager that her beauty 
just at this moment should be more fresh, 
more sweet than ever it was, careful that her 
dress should set it exquisitely off. Imagine it ! 
Her lips ready for the kiss ! Oh, how should 
another woman not know ? I saw Mile. C^lie, 
her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. Never 
had she looked so lovely. The pale green 
bat upon her fair head heavy with its curls \ 
From head to foot she looked herself over, 
axid then she sighed — she sighed with pleasure 
because she looked so pretty. That was MUe. 
C£lie last night, monsieur. She gathered up 
her train, took her long white gloves in the 
other hand, and ran down the stairs, her high 
heels clicking on the wood, her buckles glitter- 
ing. At the bottom she turned and said to 
me : — 

" * Remember, H&fcnc, you can go to bed/ 


i 3 S 




"That was it, monsieur." And now 
violently the rancour of Helfene Vauquier's 
feelings burst out once more, ** For her the 
fine clothes, the pleasure, and the happiness. 
For me — I could go to bed ! " 

Hanaud looked again at the description 
which Helene Vauquier had written out and 
read it through carefully. Then he asked a 
question, of which Ricardo did not quite see 
the drift. 

"So," he said, "when this morning you 
suggested to Monsieur the Commissure that 

it would be advisable for 
you to go through Mile, 
C^lie's wardrobe, von 
found that nothing more 
had been taken away 
except the white lace 
cloak ? " 

"That is so," 
" Very well. Now, after 
Mile. C^lie had gone 

down the stairs " 

"I put the lights out 
in her room and, as she 
had ordered me to do, 
I went to bed The next 
thing that I remember 
— but no I It terrifies me 
too much to think of it," 
Helene shuddered and 
covered her face with her 
hands spasmodically, 
Hanaud drew her hands 
gently down, 

"Courage! You are 
safe now, mademoiselle. 
Calm yourself!" 

She lay back with her 
eyes closed. ll Yes, yes ; 
it is true. I am safe 
now. But oh, I feel I 
shall never dare to sleep 
again ! " And the tears 
swam in her eyes. " I 
woke up with a feeling 
of being suffocated. Mon 
Dieu ! There was the 
light burning in the room 
and a woman, the strange 
woman with the strong 
hands, was holding me 
down by the shoulders, 
while a man with his cap 
drawn over his eyes and 
a Uttle black moustache 
pressed over my lips a 
pad from which a horribly 
sweet and sickly taste 
Oh, I was terrified ! I 
I struggled. The woman 
to keep quiet But I 
could not. I must struggle. And then with 
a brutality unheard of she dragged me up 
on to my knees while the man kept the pad 
right over my mouth. The man with his free 
arm held me close to him T and she bound my 
hands with a cord behind me. Look 4" 

She held out her wrists. They were terribly 
bruised. Red aifid angry lines showed where 

t he diWv ,, lEftJ.|^u;t '3|e^il £ Hfttfrfi, H er A tsn . 

filled my mouth, 
could not scream, 
told me roughly 



" Then they flung me down again upon my 
back, and the next thing I remember is the 
doctor standing over me and this kind nurse 
supporting me." 

She sank back exhausted in her chair and 
wiped her forehead with her handkerchief. 
The sweat stood upon it in beads. 

" Thank you, mademoiselle, " said Hanaud, 
gravely. " This has been a trying ordeal for 
you. I understand that. Now, there is just 
one little thing more. I want you to read 
this description of Mile. C£lie through again 
to make sure that nothing has been omitted." 
He gave the paper into the maid's hands. 

"It will be advertised, so it is important 
that it should be complete. See that you have 
left out nothing." 

H^lfcne Vauquier bent her head over the 

"No," said H&fene at last. "I do not 
think I have omitted anything." And she 
handed the paper back. 

" I asked you," Hanaud continued, suavely, 
" because I understand that Mile. C£lie 
usually wore a pair of diamond ear-drops, 
and they are not mentioned here." 

A faint colour came into the maid's face. 

"That is true, monsieur. I had forgotten. 
It is quite true." 

" Anyone might forget," said Hanaud, with 
a reassuring smile. " But you will remember 
now. Think ! think ! Did Mile. Celie wear 
them last night ? " He leaned forward, wait- 
ing for her reply. Wethermill, too, made a 
movement. Both men evidently thought 
the point of great importance. The maid 
looked at Hanaud for a few moments without 

" It is not from me, mademoiselle, that you 
will get the answer," said Hanaud, quietly. 

"No, monsieur. I was thinking," said the 
maid, her face flushing at the rebuke. 

" Did she wear them when she went down 
the stairs last night ? " he insisted. 

" I think she wore them," she said, doubt- 
fully. " Ye-es— yes," and the words came 
now firm and clear. "I remember well. 
Mile. C£lie had taken them off" before her 
bath, and they lay on the dressing-table. 
She put them into her ears while I dressed 
her hair and arranged the bow of ribbon 
in it." 

"Then we will add the earrings to your 
description," said Hanaud, as he rose from 
his chair with the paper in his hand. 

H^tene Vauquier looked anxiously towards 

" I can go from this villa, monsieur ?" she 
pleaded, with a trembling voice. 

" Certainly ; you shall go to your friends 
at once." 

" Oh, monsieur, thank you ! " she cried, 
and suddenly she gave way. The tears 
began to flow from her eyes. She buried 
her face in her hands and sobbed. "It is 
foolish of me, but what would you ? " She 
jerked out the words between her sobs. " It 
has been too terrible." 

" Yes, yes," said Hanaud, soothingly. 
" The nurse will put a few things together 
for you in a bag. You will not leave Aix, 
of course, and I will send someone with you 
to your friends." 

The maid started violently. 

"Oh, not a sergentdeville^ monsieur, I 
beg of you. I should be disgraced." 

" No. It shall be a man in plain clothes, 
to see that you are not hindered by reporters 
on the way." 

Hanaud turned towards the door. On the 
dressing-table a cord was lying. He took it 
up and spoke to the nurse. 

" Was this the cord with which Hdlfcne 
Vauquier's hands were tied ? " 

" Yes, monsieur," she replied. 

Hanaud handed it to the Commissaire. 

"It will be necessary to keep that," he said. 

It was a thin piece bf strong whipcord. 
It was the same kind of cord as that which 
had been found tied round Mme. Dauvpay's 
throat. Hanaud opened the door and 
turned back to the nurse. 

" We will send for a cab for Mile. 
Vauquier. You will drive with her to her 
door. I think after that she will need no 
further help. Pack up a few things and 
bring them down. Mile. Vauquier can follow, 
no doubt, now without assistance." And, 
with a friendly nod, he left the room. 

Ricardo had been wondering, through the 
examination, in what light Hanaud con- 
sidered H^lfcne Vauquier. He was sympa- 
thetic, but the sympathy might merely have 
been assumed to deceive. His questions 
betrayed in no particular the colour of his 
mind. Now, however, he made himself clear. 
He informed the nurse, in the plainest 
possible way, that she was no longer to act 
as jailer. She was to bring Vauquier's things 
down ; but Vauquier could follow by herself. 
Evidently H&kne Vauquier was cleared. 



Harry Wethermill, however, was not so 
easily satisfied. 

" Surely, monsieur, it would be well to 
know whither she is going," he said, "and 

,v whither she is gome, 1 




to make sure that when she has gone there 
she will stay there— until we want her again?" 

Hanaud looked at the young man pityingly. 

11 1 can understand, monsieur, that you 
hold strong views about H^lfene Vauquier. 
You are human, like the rest of us. And 
what she has said to us just now would not 

make you more friendly. But — but " 

and he preferred to shrug his shoulders rather 
than to finish in words his sentence. " How- 
ever," he said, " we shall take care to know 
where Hdfene Vauquier is staying. Indeed, 
if she is at all implicated in this affair we 
shall learn more if we leave her free than if 
we keep her under lock and key. Monsieur 
sees that? If we leave her quite free, but 
watch her very, very carefully, so as to 
awaken no suspicion, she may be em- 
boldened to do something rash — or the 
others may." 

Mr. Ricardo approved of Hanaud's 

"That is quite true," he said. "She 
might write a letter." 

"Yes, or receive one," added Hanaud, 
"which would be still more satisfactory for 
us— supposing, of course, that she has any- 
thing to do with this affair " ; and again he 
shrugged his shoulders. He turned towards 
the Commissaire. 

"You have a discreet officer whom you 
can trust ? " he asked. 

" Certainly. A dozen." 

" I want only one." 

"And here he is," said the Commissaire. 

They were descending the stairs. On the 
landing of the first floor Durette, the man 
who had discovered where the cord was 
bought, was still waiting. Hanaud took 
Durette by the sleeve in the familiar way 
which he so commonly used and led him to 
the top of the stairs, where the two men 
stood for a few moments apart. It was plain 
that Hanaud was giving, Durette receiving, 
definite instructions. Durette descended the 
stairs ; Hanaud came back to the others. 

" I have told him to fetch a cab," he said, 
" and convey H^lfene Vauquier to her friends." 
Then he looked at Ricardo, and from Ricardo 
to the Commissaire, while he rubbed his hand 
backwards and forwards across his shaven 

" I tell you," he said, " I find this sinister 
little drama very interesting to me. The 
sordid, miserable struggle for mastery in this 
household of Mme. Dauvray — eh ? Yes, 
very interesting. Just as much patience, just 
as much effort, just as much planning for this 
small end as a General uses to defeat an army 

— and, at the last, nothing gained. What else 
is politics ? Yes, very interesting." 

His eyes rested upon Wethermill's face for 
a moment, but they gave the young man no 
hope. He took a key from his pocket. 

" We need not keep this room locked," he 
said. " We know all that there is to be 
known"; and he inserted the key into the 
lock of Celiacs room and turned it. 

" But is that wise, monsieur?" said Besnard. 

Hanaud shrugged his shoulders. 

" Why not ? " he asked. 

"The case is in your hands," said the 
Commissaire. To Ricardo the proceedings 
seemed singularly irregular. But if the Com- 
missaire was content, it was not for him to 

"And where is my excellent friend 
Perrichet ? " asked Hanaud ; and leaning 
over the balustrade he called him up from 
the hall. 

"We will now," said Hanaud, "have a 
glance into this poor murdered woman's 

The room was opposite to Celia's. Besnard 
produced the key and unlocked the door. 
Hanaud took off his hat upon the threshold 
and then passed into the room with his com- 
panions. Upon the bed, outlined under a 
sheet, lay the rigid form of Mme. Dauvray. 
Hanaud stepped gently to the bedside and 
reverently uncovered the face. For a moment 
all could see it — livid, swollen, unhuman. 

" A brutal business," he said, in a low voice, 
and when he turned again to his companions 
his face was white and sickly. He replaced 
the sheet, and gazed about the room. 

Downstairs, in the salon, only a chair had 
been overturned, only a few cushions dis- 
arranged. Here there was every sign of 
violence and disorder. An empty safe stood 
open in one corner, a circle had been cut 
out round the lock by a centrebit ; the rugs 
upon the polished floor were kicked up, every 
drawer had been torn open, the very bed had 
been moved from its position. 

" It was in this safe that Mme. Dauvray 
hid her jewels each night," said the Commis- 
saire as Hanaud gazed about the room. 

"Oh, was it so?" said Hanaud, slowly. 
It seemed to Ricardo that he read something 
in the aspect of this room, too, which troubled 
his mind and increased his perplexity. 

" Yes," said Besnard, confidently. " Every 
night Mme. Dauvray put her jewels away in 
this safe. Vauquier told me so this morning 
in Celia Harland's room. Every night she 
was never too tired for that. Besides, here" — 
and putting his hand into the safe he drew 




out a paper — "here is the list of Mme. 
Dauvray's jewellery." 

But plainly Hanaud was not satisfied. 
He took the list and glanced through the 
items. But his thoughts were not concerned 
with it 

u If that is so," he said, slowly, " if Mme. 
Dauvray kept her jewels in this safe, why has 
every drawer been ransacked, why was the 
bed moved ? Perrichet, lock the door — 
quietly — from the inside. That is right. 
Now lean your back against it." 

Hanaud waited until he saw Perrichet's 
broad back against the door. Then he went 
down upon his knees, and, tossing the rugs 
here and there, examined with the minutest 
care the parquet flooring. By the side of 
the bed a Persian rug of blue silk was 
spread. This in its turn he tossed quickly 
aside. He bent his eyes to the ground, lay 
prone, moved this way and that, and then 
with a spring he rose upon his knees. He 
raised his finger to his lips. In a dead 
silence he drew a penknife quickly from his 
pocket and opened it. He bent down again 
and inserted the blade between the cracks of 
the blocks. The three men in the room 
watched him with an intense excitement. A 
block of wood rose from the floor, he pulled 
it out, laid it noiselessly down, and inserted 
his hand into the opening. 

Wethermill at Ricardo's elbow uttered a 
stifled cry. " Hush ! " whispered Hanaud, 
angrily. He drew out his hand again. It 
was holding a green leather jewel-case. He 
opened it, and a diamond necklace flashed 
its thousand colours in their faces. He 
thrust in his hand again and again and again, 
and each time that he withdrew it, it held 
a jewel-case. Before the astonished eyes of 
his companions he opened them — collars of 
pearls, pendants of diamonds, necklaces 
of emeralds, rings of pigeon-blood rubies, 
bracelets of gold studded with opals. 
Mme. Dauvray's various jewellery was dis- 

" But that is astounding," said Besnard, in 
an awestruck voice. 

" Then she was never robbed after all ? " 
cried Ricardo. 

Hanaud rose to his feet. 

" What a piece of irony ! " he whispered. 
" The poor woman is murdered for her 
jewels, the room's turned upside down, and 
nothing is found. For all the while they lay 
safe in this cache. Nothing is taken except 
what she wore. Let us see what she 

" Nothing but a few rings, Helene Vauquier 

Digitized byV^OOQ IC 

thought," said Besnard. " But she was not 

" Ah ! " said Hanaud. " Well, let us make 
sure ! " and, taking the list from the safe, he 
compared it with the jewellery in the cases 
on the floor, ticking off the items one by one. 
When he had finished he knelt down again, 
and, thrusting his hand into the hole, felt 
carefully about. 

"There is a pearl necklace missing," he 
said. " A valuable necklace, from the 
description in the list," and he sat back 
upon his heels. "We will send the intelli- 
gent Perrichet for a bag," he said, " and we 
will counsel the intelligent Perrichet not to 
breathe a word to any living soul of what he 
has seen in this room. Then we will seal 
up in the bag the jewels, and we will hand 
it over to M. le Commissaire, who will convey 
it with the greatest secrecy out of this villa. 
For the list — I will keep it," and he placed 
it carefully in his pocket-book. 

He unlocked the door and went out him- 
self on to the landing. He looked down the 
stairs and up the stairs ; then he beckoned 
Perrichet to him. 

" Go ! " he whispered. " Be quick, and 
when you come back hide the bag carefully 
under your coat." 

Perrichet went down the stairs with pride 
written upon his face. Was he not assist- 
ing the great M. Hanaud from the Stiret^ 
in Paris ? Hanaud returned into Mme. 
Dauvray's room and closed the door. He 
looked into the eyes of his companions. 

" Can't you see the scene ? " he asked, 
with a queer smile of excitement. He had 
forgotten Wethermill ; he had forgotten even 
the dead woman shrouded beneath the sheet. 
He was absorbed. His eyes were bright, his 
whole face vivid with life. Ricardo saw the 
real man at this moment — and feared for 
Harry Wethermill. For nothing would 
Hanaud now turn aside until he had reached 
the truth and set his hands upon the quarry. 
Of that Ricardo felt sure. He was trying 
now to make his companions see and under- 
stand just what he saw and understood. 

" Can't you see it ? The old woman lock- 
ing up her jewels in this safe every night 
before the eyes of her maid or her com- 
panion, and then, as soon as she was alone, 
taking them stealthily out of the safe and 
hiding them in this secret place. But I tell 
you — this is human. Yes, it is interesting 
just because it is so human. Then picture 
to yourselves last night, the murderers open- 
ing this safe and finding nothing -oh, but 
nothing !^^ n .ransacking the room in a 




deadly haste, kicking up the rugs, forcing 
open the drawers, and always finding 
nothing — nothing — nothing. Think of their 
rage, their stupefaction, and finally their 
fear ! They must go, and with one pearl 
necklace, when they hoped to reap a great 
fortune. Oh, but this is interesting — yes, I 
tell you— I, who have seen many strange 
things— this is interesting." 

Perrichet returned with a canvas bag, 
into which Hanaud placed the jewel-case. 
He sealed the bag in the presence of the 
four men and handed it to Besnard. He 
replaced the block of wood in the floor, 
covered it over again with the rug, and rose 
to his feet. 

" Listen ! " he said, in a low voice, and with 
a gravity which impressed them all. " There is 
something in this house which I do not under- 
stand. I have told you so. I tell you something 
more now. I am afraid — I am afraid." And 
the word startled his hearers like a thunder- 
clap, though it was breathed no louder than a 
whisper. "Yes, my friends," he repeated, 
nodding his head, " terribly afraid." And 
upon the others fell a discomfort, an awe, as 
though something sinister and dangerous were 
present in the room and close to them. So 
vivid was the feeling, instinctively they drew 
nearer together. " Now, I warn you solemnly. 
There must be no whisper that these jewels 
have been discovered ; no newspaper must 
publish a hint of it ; no one must suspect 
that here in this room we have found them. 
Is that understood?" 

"Certainly," said the Commissaire. 

"Yes," said Mr. Ricardo. 

" To be sure, monsieur," said Perrichet 

As for Harry Wethermill, he made no reply. 
His burning eyes were fixed upon Hanaud's 
face, and that was all. Hanaud, for his part, 
asked for no reply from him. Indeed, he 
kept his eyes even from Harry Wethermill's 

He went down again into the little, gay 
salon lit with flowers and August sunlight, 
and stood beside the settee gazing at it with 
troubled eyes. And, as he gazed, he closed 
his eyes and shivered. He shivered like a 
man who has taken a sudden chill. Nothing 
in all this morning's investigations, not even 
the rigid body beneath the sheet, or the 
strange discovery of the jewels, had so 
impressed Ricardo. For there he had been 
confronted with facts, definite and complete ; 
here was a suggestion of unknown horrors, a 
hint, not a fact, compelling the imagination 
to dark conjecture. Hanaud shivered. 
That he had no idea why Hanaud shivered 

made the action still more significant, still 
more alarming. And it was not Ricardo 
alone who was moved by it. A voice of 
despair rang through the room. The voice 
was Harry WethermilPs, and his face was 
ashy white. 

"Monsieur!" he cried, "I do not know 
what makes you shudder ; but I am remem- 
bering a few words you used this morning." 

Hanaud spun round upon his heel. His 
face was drawn and grey and his eyes blazed. 

" I also am remembering those words," he 
said. Thus the two men stood confronting 
one another, eye to eye, with awe and fear in 
both their faces. 

Ricardo was wondering to what words they 
both referred, when the sound of wheels 
broke in upon the silence. The effect upon 
Hanaud was magical. He thrust his hands 
in his pockets. 

" H£lene Vauquier's cab," he said, lightly. 
He drew out his cigarette-case and lighted a 
cigarette. " Let us see that poor woman 
safely off. It is a closed cab, I hope." 

It was a closed landau. It drove past the 
open door of the salon to the front door of 
the house. In Hanaud's wake they all went 
out into the hall. The nurse came down 
carrying H£l&ne Vauquier's bag. She placed 
it in the cab and waited. 

"Perhaps H^Ifene Vauquier has fainted," 
she said, anxiously. " She does not come " ; 
and she moved towards the stairs. 

Hanaud took a singularly swift step forward 
and stopped her. 

" Why should you think that ?" he asked, 
with a queer smile upon his face, and as he 
spoke a door closed gently upstairs. " See," 
he continued, "you are wrong. She is 

Ricardo was puzzled. It had seemed to 
him that the door which had closed so gently 
was nearer than H^lfene Vauquier's door. It 
seemed to him that the door was upon the 
first, not the second landing. But Hanaud 
had noticed nothing strange in that. He 
greeted H^lfene Vauquier with a smile as she 
came down the stairs. 

" You are better, mademoiselle," he said, 
politely. " One can see that. There is more 
colour in your cheeks. A day or two, and 
you will be yourself again." 

He held the door open while she got into 
the cab. The nurse took her seat beside 
her ; Durette mounted on the box. The cab 
turned and went down the drive. 

" Good-bye, mademoiselle," cried Hanaud, 
and he watched until the high shrubs hid it 
Then he behavad- ot an (-extraordinary way. 



He turned and sprang 

like lightning up the 

stairs. His agility 

amazed Ricardo. The 

others fallowed upon 

his heels- He flung 

himself at Celiacs door 

and opened it. He 

burst into the room, 

stood for a second, 

then ran to the win- 
dow. He hid behind 

the curtain, looking 

out. With his hand 

be waved to his com- 
panions to keep back. 

The sound of wheels 

creaking and rasping 

rose to their eats, 

The cab had just come 

out into the road. 

Durette upon the box 

turned and looked to- 
wards the house. Just 

for a moment Hanaud 

leaned from the win- 
dow, as Besnard, the 

Commissaire, had 

done, and, like Bes- 

nard again, he waved 
his hand. Then he 

came back into the 
room and saw, stand- 
ing in front of him, 
with his mouth open 
and his eyes starting 
out of hts head t Perri- 
chet — the intelligent 

11 Monsieur," cried 
Perrichet, " something 
has been taken from 
this room." 

Hanaud looked 
round the room and shook his head. 
"No/' he said 

" But yes, monsieur," Perrichet insisted, 
"Oh, but yes, See! Upon this dressing- 
table there was a small pot of cold cream, 
It stood here, where my finger is, when we 
were in this room an hour ago. Now it is 

Hanaud burst into a laugh. 

" My friend Perrichet," he said, ironically, 

"I will tell you the newspaper did not do you 

justice. You are more than intelligent. The 

truth, my excellent friend, lies at the bottom 


j °°S»*< 


of a well ; but you would find it at the 

bottom of a pot of cold cream. Now let us 

go. For in this house, gentlemen, we have 

nothing more to do + " 

He passed out of the room. Perrichet 

stood aside, his face crimson, his attitude one 

of shame. He had been rebuked by the 

great M. Hanaud, and justly rebuked, He 

knew it now. He had wished to display his 

intelligence — yes, at all costs he must show 

how intelligent he was. And he had shown 

himself a fool He should have kept silence 

about that i>ot of cream. 
Original from 


" My Reminiscences." 



OW time does fly! I had 
■ scarcely remarked Its flight 
until the other day, when, in 
accepting the invitation of the 
Editor of The Strand Maga- 
zine to recount my remi- 
niscences, I sat down to recall some of the 
events which have marked my career. It 
really does not seem so very long ago when I 
set out from my home in Kbnigsberg, on the 
Prussian frontier, on a holiday tour through 
Italy with my father. I was scarcely ten, 
but I still vividly remember wandering by 
my father's side, my hand in his, through the 
world -Famous art galleries of Rome and 
Florence, lost in admiration of the magni- 
ficent sculptors of the heroes of old — 
warriors and athletes — whose names and 
records have rung down to us 
through the ages, 

It was perhaps the more 
because I was myself so deli- 
cate of health and frail of 
physique that the sculptured 
beauty of the many statues, 
bespeaking power and energy 
in every limb, appealed so 
strongly to my juvenile imagi- 
nation and aroused my youth- 
ful appreciation of the bodily 
strength and natural grace of 
these heroes of a long - lost 

They had lived, these mag- 
nificent men upon whose 
carven figures and torsos I 
gazed with wonder and envy, 
and as I realized this the 
question burst from my lips: 
" How is it that these men were 
so strong, father? How is it 
that men to-day are so different 
from them in strength and 
stature ? " 

His reply I could not possibly forget 
though I lived to be a thousand, for it was 
the nature of it that practically decided my 
whole career — al though, of course, I did not 
know it then. Looking back, however, in 
later years I recognized that my experience 


that day, and his answers to my questions, 
marked out the path of my future. Briefly, 
my father pointed out that the secret of the 
wonderful development of those ancients lay 
in the fact that they were men of action, 
fighting men — men who fought with their 
limbs and not with guns and cannon. 

"The heroes of old, my little Eugen," hv 
said, "never lolled at ease in a carriage or a 
railway train. Either they vvalked or rode on 
horse-back. Thus they were ever active, ever 
exercising their bodies, But nowadays," he 
went on, "the brain is cultivated and the 
body neglected," and he continued his 
explanation in words to the effect that 
civilization was the triumph of the brain, one 
result of it being world-wide degeneration of 
health and strength* In olden days people 
looked after their bodies far 
more carefully because, in the 
majority of cases, it was upon 
their bodies that they were 
forced to rely if they would live. 
But now, more often than not, 
life means nothing more or less 
than a race for wealth — people 
prefer riches to health and 

I found his words wonder- 
fully true; and they are even 
truer to - day than when he 
uttered them. In the struggle 
to pile up money no thought 
is given to the wear and tear 
of the body and brain, and 
the irony of the situation makes 
itself manifest when those who, 
having acquired sufficient for- 
tune, would cease their labours 
and enjoy their gains find that 
they have been exhausting 
themselves of their health and 
their strength. 

This brings me to a point 
that I would particularly like to emphasize, 
There prevails a rather general impression that, 
in order to become strong, one must be born 
strong. I can put forward no greater proof 
of the error.-of this, klea than my own case. 
As a child I ft as paJe, fraiL delicate, even. 





weakly. I inherited no abundance of health 
or extraordinary physique, for my parents 
were not exceptional in these respects, nor, 
so far as I know, were any of my ancestors. 
That I have acquired health and strength is 
due entirely to the fact that I have exercised 
regularly and systematically, not spasmodi- 
cally and erratically, from the moment I 
fir*t determined to emulate those heroes of 
old, when I set rny eyes 
upon their sculptured 
forms in Italy's galleries 
of art, 

I state these facts be- 
cause, in the first place, it 
is most harmful that so 
detrimental a delusion — 
that one must be born 
strong to be strong — 
should have continuance ; 
and hi the second place, 
to contradict statements 
which have been made 
again and again, that not 
only was I phenomenally 
strong as a child, but that 
I came of a muscularstocL 

Well, the upshot of my 
father's explanation was to 
fire me with the desire to 
become as graceful and as 
strong as the originals of 
the statues which I had 
gazed upon ; so when I 
returned to school after my holiday tour 
I loaded my boxes with all the books on 
athletics and athletic exercises I could 
persuade my generous parent to purchase. 
But although I persevered as the books 
directed, and frequented the gymnasium on 
well-nigh every possible opportunity, not 
much came of my desire for a few years ; 
indeed, it was not until I was sixteen or 
seventeen that my studies took me seriously 
into anatomy, and I realized that I held in 
my possession the key to the secret I had 
been endeavouring to solve, Anatomy taught 
me that there were so many muscles in the 
body j from experience I knew that man had 
no use, or at least found none, for the 
majority of his muscles, and common sense 
told me that every one of them was created 
for a purpose. I set myself to find out the 
action of each muscle, and, having found it, 
produced a system of exercise for giving each 
and every muscle a movement, and then 
arranged forms of exercises which would 
develop each and every set of them, fixing 
the mind upon them whilst exercising, and 
V9L MxUt— 10* 

Awn a PkbU&rtifih. 

by which, when some were brought into play, 
others were released and left at rest. 

And this is the foundation of my system as 
it prevails to day, by which the weak person 
is not only made strong, but those suffering 
from certain illnesses are also restored to 
perfect health. 1 may say, by the way, that 
I adopted no form of diet in my search for 
health and strength, I ate and drank in the 
ordinary way, and I would 
add that neither was I 
then nor am I now, except 
in very rare cases, a 
believer in special diet. 
That which my fancy has 
dictated I have always 
eaten and drunk, at the 
same time, however, taking 
the most scrupulous care 
to avoid anything in the 
nature of excess. Than 
moderation there is no 
better guide to good living. 
By the time I had 
gained my eighteenth year 
and finished my schooling 
at Konigsberg I had 
exercised myself into a 
condition of perfect health 
and strength, and when I 
again turned my face south 
to gather further know- 
ledge and experience by 
travelling I was a far 
different being from the lad of ten who had 
wandered abroad with his father a few years 

Whilst sojourning for a time in Holland 
I was persuaded by a fellow-student to 
accompany him on a visit to Paris. It is 
unnecessary to state that I did not require a 
great deal of persuasion, for like all youths 
I was eager to feast my eyes on the French 
capital j but on this occasion, although I 
feasted my eyes, that was the extent of the 
feast, or nearly S£>. Unfortunately for me, 
my companion proved a rather erratic 
person, for a couple of days after our arrival 
in La Ville I.umiere he disappeared, leaving 
me stranded, and for the time being 
absolutely M dans la pourrir/' as the French 
say. To be without money in a strange 
land was bad enough, but to make matters 
worse my knowledge of the language was 
such that I might just as well have been 
dumb. For the first day I did not worry much, 
although my posi : ;ion was an awkward one, 

" WftTO to m v 

missing friend, so I wandered round and saw 



Paris at my leisure, comforting myself in my 
hunger with reflections on the feed I would 
have when he returned. I waited and 
hoped — not caring to write home, as that 
would of necessity have required an explana- 
tion of my business in Paris when I was 
supposed hy my people to be in Holland — 
but when the second day and the third 
passed, the inner man began most forcibly 
to protest against the protracted neglect. 
Food had to be obtained somehow; that 
became a moral certainty. The question 
was, how? Whilst I pondered over the 
problem it flashed across my mind that I 
had some stock-in-trade, and there was at 
least one market I might carry it to— the 
artists' studios. I had my physique, and 
artists wanted models. That determined me. 

From a waiter whose 
acquaintance I had made 
I secured the names and 
addresses of the leading 
sculptors, learnt from 
him by heart the French 
for " Do you want a 
model?" and with hopes 
high started on a round 
of visits. Gradually 
my optimism vanished 
before repeated re- 
fusals of my proffered 
services, and I began to 
believe that either artists 
were as badly off as I 
was, or that models were 
a drug in the market. 

Still, I would never 
say die whilst there 
remained a sculptor un- 
visited, and in course of 
time I knocked at the 
door of the atelier of a 
well - known sculptor, 
Krauk by name. He 
answered in person. 
" Do you want a model ? T ' 
I inquired, in my best French. His "Non ,p 
was mighty and meant to be conclusive. 
Spurred on by desperation, I rattled out 
some explanation, but he shook his head, 
and in his hurry to return to his work almost 
thrust me from the door. 

In sadness, and with weary steps, I 
descended the stairs, and the lower I got 
the greater became my anger and indignation 
at the treatment I had received. At the 
bottom, in the c&vr 3 I stood undecided but 
bitter. Upstairs I had seen through the 
doorway of the studio that Krauk was 

IYopu a I'kolvffraph bjf 

working on a statue, endeavouring to model 
in clay a Greek god ; and there was I, with 
the very perfect bodily development he was 
trying to reproduce in clay, starving on his 

It was more than flesh and blood and an 
empty stomach could stand* The courtyard 
was deserted, the staircase silent and none 
too light. That decided me. I stripped off 
my upper garments and wasted no time in 
mounting to K rank's studio, I thundered at 
the door It flew open, and I prepared to 
follow in, but— it stopped on a chain ! 
Krauk was evidently determined that callers 
should not worry him. He came to the 
door, yelling, apparently in anger, As I 
could not get my body in I thrust in my arm. 
It stopped Krauk ; for a moment he was 
struck dumb. 

The next instant he 
had removed the chain 
and pulled me into the 
studio, where I stood 
with his gaze fixed upon 
me in profound admira- 
tion of my muscular 
development, which held 
him speechless, Then, 
his eyes agleam with 
excitement, he launched 
himself upon me, and, as 
is the way of foreigners, 
embraced me in his wild 
enthusiasm, kissing me 
on both cheeks, while I 
thanked Heaven that my 
persistency had met with 
its reward. My anxiety 
at the moment was* 
however, to be fed, not 
admired, and finding that 
he was a good linguist — 
although, when I had on 
my first application en- 
deavoured to persuade 
him to see me stripped, 
he had feigned ignorance of my language — 
I told him that I was hungry — ravenous — that 
food had not passed my lips for three days. My 
heart gave a bound of joy when he replied, 

"Terrible, my poor fellow— terrible ! 3 ' he 
exclaimed. "You must have food at once, 
and then," he added, "you must come and 
sit to me," 

A few minutes later I was enjoying the 
much-longed-for meal in a neighbouring cafe 
—a meal 1 shall never forget, for steak 

Erimvwnto si's 

hnvlmt iHartoKopic Co, 



champagne, which Krauk ordered to celebrate 
what he called his " find." And then I lived 

In due course I found myself in Italy, and 
although, despite the professional apprecia- 
tion of my patron, Herr Krauk, I scarcely 
realized the state of physical symmetry to 
which I had attained, it was brought to my 
mind quite unexpectedly one day whilst 
bathing at a little seaside resort near Venice. 
I had quitted the water and was making my 
way up the beach when I noticed that I had 
become the particular attraction for a gentle- 
man sauntering by. As I apologized in 
passing him he stopped to compliment me 
upon what he was pleased to term my 
"perfect physique and beauty of form." 
That casual critic proved to be none other 
than Aubrey Hunt, the famous artist, with 
whom I afterwards became on terms of close 
friendship, and to whom I had the pleasure 
of posing in the character of a Roman 
gladiator ; and my eyes never rest upon that 
picture (reproduced on the next page) but it 
recalls the many happy days we spent together. 

It is quite possible, by the way, that my 
first visit to England might have been delayed 
for a considerable time but for the fact that 
one day Mr. Aubrey Hunt happened to 
remark to me that a certain man, who 
called himself Samson, was appearing at 
the Aquarium, in London, described as 
"the most powerful man on earth," and 
was challenging the world, at the same time 
offering one hundred pounds to the person 
who could perform the feats of his pupil, 
Cyclops, and one thousand pounds to 
anyone who could beat his own. 

Mr. Hunt told me of this challenge one 
morning. The afternoon found me on my 
way to England, a country of which I had 
heard much, and often longed to visit, 
during the previous three years spent study- 
ing and touring through Holland, France, 
Italy, and Southern Europe generally. I 
came then because I saw before me an 
excellent opportunity of a holiday with 
expenses paid, for I had small doubt that I 
could win the money Samson was offering. 
I felt more fit, stronger, and healthier than 
ever at this period, for I had continued in 
the three years to acquire strength and 
stamina by persistent exercise on the system 
I had laid down, and by wrestling with some 
of the best-known amateurs of the time. 

Arrived in London, I put myself into the 
hands of Mr. Attila, a friend whom I had 
met in Brussels, persuading him to act as my 
guide and interpreter; and if my optimism 

was great, Mr. Attila was no pessimist so far 
as his belief in my power to defeat Samson 
and his pupil was concerned. 

The eventful day— or, rather, evening — of 
my life came at last, the Saturday when, 
with Mr. Albert Fleming as my agent, Mr. 
Attila* and myself strolled into the now 
demolished Royal Aquarium to beard "the 
most powerful man on earth." Quietly we 
sat in the stalls until Samson appeared and 
threw out his challenge. Mr. Fleming rose 
and accepted it, naturally inquiring if the 
money was ready. A note for one hundred 
pounds was put up as a guarantee of good 
faith, backed by the statement that the one 
thousand pounds would also be forthcoming 
if necessary. 

Amidst a breathless silence I rose from my 
seat and stepped upon the platform, where I 
stood the cynosure of all eyes, and the subject 
of a hum of conversation. I was in evening 
dress to the ordinary eye, and consequently 
jacket and shirt-front hid from the audience 
any indication of my physique ; and I can well 
imagine the company's surprise at seeing this 
presumptuous youth, nothing out of the 
ordinary to look upon, picking up the gauntlet 
which the redoubtable Samson had thrown 
down. But the moment I stripped my dress- 
coat and shirt-front, which came away in 
one piece, and stood revealed in a sleeveless, 
businesslike jersey, a change came over the 
spectators. Samson ceased to laugh, and I 
noticed that every countenance in the sea of 
faces before me was set as serious as my own. 

Samson repeatedly inquired sotto voce, so 
that the spectators should not hear : " Who 
is this man ? Where does he come from ? 
Who is he ? " There was, however, neither 
time nor -need to reply to these inquiries. 

We proceeded to business. One by one 
I followed Cyclops through his feats, execut- 
ing each of them without showing the least 
sign of effort or distress, and was awarded the 
contest and the hundred pounds. 

But, as my friend explained, it was not the 
hundred pounds for which I had come to 
London, but the one thousand pounds 
offered by Samson to anyone who defeated 
him. The audacity of the proposal to 
continue then and there staggered him, but 
the public cheered it to the echo, and were 
greatly disappointed at the decision to post- 
pone our meeting, as Samson was so taken 
aback that he declared himself unprepared 
to continue until the following Saturday 
evening. £ 

SM^pBftSIT^lfetettgfll^, November, 1889, 
proved a memorable date in my career. 



Recalling it now I find it difficult to believe 
that twenty years have slipped by since then, 
and although, as years count, I must be 
older, I certainly cannot say that I feel so 
by a day, which proves the truth of the old 
saying, M that a man is only as old as he 

The Royal Aquarium was so packed that 
I found it utterly impossible to secure 
entrance by any of the ordinary doors, and, 
as a matter of fact, I was forced to burst 
open a side door ere I could gain admission, 
and thereby only 
saved the appoint- 
ment by a bare 
thirty seconds. A 
narrow escape, 
indeed ! 

The Marquess 
of Queensberry 
and Lord de Clif- 
ford were ap- 
pointed judges, 
and they examined 
closely all the 
objects which were 
to be used in the 

We commenced 
and — we finished. 
But ere we finished 
the positions had 
been reversed, and 
with a vengeance, 
for, after faithfully 
and nonchalantly 
emulating al 1 
Samson J s feats — 
to his disgust and 
chagrin it need 
scarcely be said — 
I took the lead 
and set him feats 
to accomplish, 
offering him the 
one thousand 
pounds which I 
had won if he 
succeeded in doing 
so, Samson, how- 
ever, would have none of it, and, sad to relate, 
I did not get the ^>xi^ thousand pounds. Pay- 
ment was promised on the morrow, but it 
never came ; Samson and his money had 
vanished. It must, however, be recorded that 
the Aquarium proprietors handed me a sum 
of several hundred pounds as some solatium. 

I had now arrived at a period of my life 
which was fraught with the greatest possi- 

FY&m the Pointing J>y A nfuvir //mil. 

bilities as to the future, Previously I had 
fully determined what my future was to be. 
All my studies had been directed to the one 
aim and object of showing the world the 
wonderful possibilities of physical exercise in 
the matter of perfecting health and strength. 
My natural inclination pulled me in that 
direction ; and I never had the slightest in- 
tention of demonstrating my strength upon 
the public platform* But immediately success 
crowned my appearance at the Aquarium I 
was tempted by a handsome offer to change 

my mind. Not 
without thought 
did I eventually 
accept it ; and the 
weighty factor in 
deciding me was 
the opportunity 
which I should be 
afforded of bring- 
ing home to the 
public the im- 
mense possibilities 
of physical exer- 
cise. Looking 
back now I often 
regret that I was 
ever moved from 
my original pur- 
pose, for I have 
found, and still 
find, it a matter of 
the greatest diffi- 
culty to disabuse 
the public mind of 
the erroneous idea 
that the acquire- 
ment of strength 
and health is in 
any way associated 
with lifting enor- 
mous weights and 
practising hard and 
fatiguing exercises. 
Nothing is farther 
from the truth, 
Vou cannot secure 
health and strength 
in this way. They 
must be acquired slowly but surely, by gentle, 
systematic exercise, which leaves no sense of 
fatigue behind it and incurs no possibility of 

Still, I decided as 
three months at the 
three months in th 
that timB|#tlE|W 

I have said, and spent 
A lb am bra, followed by 
iQvincfjs, entering during 

^^rt^Htt&.^ttne years to 
come, for, although the business of showman- 



ship was not to my taste, it seemed to me to 
provide the best possible means by which I 
could reach the public ear and eye, and 
demonstrate the undoubted benefits of 
systematic physical training. 

I was spending a holiday in Germany after 
my first engagement in England, and taking 
my usual morning canter, when I came, like 
one of the Babes in the Wood of ancient 
fiction, upon a fearsome-looking giant of 
modern reality. My horse was first to see 
him and shied. When I realized "Goliath " I 
was not astonished -at the animal's fright. 

I dismounted to quiet its apprehension, and 
a man whom I subsequently named 
Goliath towered before me over my horse's 
neck, so that I felt veritably like little David. 
Let me endeavour to rebuild the man as I 
saw him, Colossus in all but height, for he 
was only some six feet two inches ! His head 
was as huge and grotesque as any pantomime 
mask, with a nose the size of an ordinary fist. 
As for his fist, it would have made more than 
three of mine, and when a five-shilling piece 
was placed beneath the ball of his finger, 
believe me it was impossible to see it. 

His boots were so large that not only 
could I get both my feet into one of them, 
but I could entirely turn round inside, and 
his limbs and body were immense. Imagine 
Falstaff trebled in bulk. But he was by no 
means a fat man ; in fact, he was muscular 
and bony, with a chest measurement of about 
eighty inches, while he weighed four hundred 

Goliath's profession was that of quarryman, 
and Nature had undoubtedly cast him for it. 
The moment my eyes grew accustomed to 
this extraordinary man a thought occurred to 
me that to give him a part in a performance 
would, from a popular point of view, prove 
eminently attractive. He could not, how- 
ever, perform the feats which I performed 
with ease, and herein I saw his utility to my- 
self in demonstrating the powers of physical 
culture by showing Goliath untrained and 
myself trained. 

I inquired what wages he was earning. 

II Five marks a day," said he, and I after- 
wards ascertained that he received nearly 
double the pay of an ordinary labourer 
becaused he performed the work of six men. 
Then I sprang the surprise of his life upon 
him, telling him that if he cared to accept an 
engagement with me I would pay him twenty 
marks a day — one hundred and forty marks 
a week, work or play. He wouldn't believe 
it, seemed indeed to doubt that there was 
so much money in the world, and it took a 

good deal to convince him otherwise and 
that I was serious in my offer. However, 
eventually he accepted it, but with a caution 
fostered by incredulity he insisted that I 
should deposit the money for him in the 
bank ere he left his work and his country. 

Well do I remember our arrival at Charing 
Cross Station. The huge proportions of 
Goliath, whose real name was Karl Westphal, 
attracted the most pronounced attention, as 
may be imagined. I chartered an innocent 
four-wheeler. Goliath wondered how he was 
to pajck himself inside, while the cabman 
looked uneasy ; but he got one huge foot in, 
drew in his body, and rested against the farther 
side of the vehicle in a leaning position. 
Then he essayed to drag in his other leg, 
but his weight proved too much for the cab 
flooring. The foot already in went through 
it, and there was the giant half in and half 
out. It was in vain that I endeavoured to 
induce other cabmen to try their fortune, 
and in the end was compelled to take Goliath 
home in a pantechnicon van ! 

A man of such proportions is by way of 
being something of a white elephant. He is 
a rare creature to get hold of, and when you 
have him it is a puzzle to know what to do 
with him. I dared not let Goliath stroll 
abroad, and accordingly he had to remain 
indoors. For seven or eight weeks I tried 
to train him, but play suited him better than 
work, particularly as he was paid just the 

At the time I was engaged at a well- 
known place of entertainment in the Metro- 
polis, and a scene was arranged in which 
Goliath had to surprise me, lumbering after 
me and trying to hold me in his grip. We 
wrestled together, and it was his business 
to make himself the victor. Then, in order 
to finish me, he took a cannon weighing 
four hundred pounds, and, placing it on his 
broad shoulders, prepared to fire. In a 
moment or so I returned with the clubs. It 
was now the turn of the giant to show alarm, 
and gradually to retire, with the cannon still 
on his back, into a frame of refuge. I at 
once climbed to the top, and getting into 
a position above my antagonist I lifted him, 
refuge, and cannon with one finger, a few 
inches off the ground. During this part of 
the performance we fired the cannon, and the 
whole display was brought to a conclusion 
by placing my arm through a leather belt 
which girt his waist, and carrying him off 
above my head. 

What E^frftFMlSIHJti^ after he left me 
I know not. The last I heard of him was 



that he accomplished the feat of carrying off 
his own landlady, and that the two had 
started some sort of show together. 

In the year of the Chicago Exhibition, 
accompanied by an old friend, the famous 
pianist, Martinus Sieveking, whom I knew 
years before in Belgium and Holland, I left 
for America. Sieveking, I must tell you, was 
a brilliant pianist, but as a man he was 
exceedingly weak and delicate. Indeed, his 
powers of endurance were of the slenderest, 
and he even found it difficult tQ remain at 
the piano long at a time. " If I only had 
your strength," he used to say, regretfully, 
" I think I might become almost the 
greatest player in the world." Having a 
particular regard for Sieveking, by reason of 
our association in my student days, and 
feeling that I should not only be doing him 
personally a real benefit, but likewise the 
music-loving world at large, I suggested that 
he should accompany me as my guest to 
America, guaranteeing that in nine months 
or a year, under my personal supervision and . 
training, he would grow so strong that his 
best friend would scarcely be able to recog- 
nize him. To this proposal Sieveking agreed, 
and he travelled with me all through America. 
Weak as he was at the start, within twelve 
months he became one of the strongest and 
healthiest of my pupils and the most redoubt- 
able amateur I had ever met, whilst he was 
able to continue as he wished his professional 
career as a pianist. 

Perhaps the greatest, certainly the most 
thrilling, of all my experiences was my 
fight with a lion in San Francisco. I was 
appearing in that Western city at the time 
of the mid-winter fair which followed the 
Chicago Exhibition. In connection with 
this fair, Colonel Bone was exhibiting a great 
menagerie. One day he advertised a fight 
to the death between a lion and a bear. A 
tremendous tent, capable of accommodating 
twenty thousand spectators, was erected for 
the occasion and several thousand people had 
bought tickets, when an order was issued by 
the police that the performance would be 
forbidden. So the proposed spectacle had to 
be abandoned. 

Then, of a sudden, the thought occurred to 
me that I should take the bear's place and 
measure my strength against the king of wild 
beasts ; and, as there is no law to prevent 
cruelty to men, there was no objection to my 
proposal, though Colonel Bone, as well as 
my own friends, insisted that if a fight was to 
take place it must be a struggle between 
brute strength and human strength. In fine, 

to prevent him from tearing me to pieces 
with his claws, mittens would have to be 
placed on the lion's feet and a muzzle over 
his head. This lion, I must tell you, was a 
particularly fierce animal, and only a week 
before he had enjoyed a dish that was not on 
the menu — his keeper. 

Well, .the engagement was accordingly 
made and "A Lion Fight with Sandow" 
widely advertised. The announcement, I 
am told, sent a thrill through the cities for 
hundreds of miles around, and, in order to 
be fully equipped for a performance which 
would be bound to attract thousands and 
thousands of people, I decided to rehearse 
my fight with the lion beforehand. I had it 
in my mind that the effect of mittening and 
muzzling the beast might be to put him off 
the fight by frightening him, and, realizing 
how foolish I should appear facing a lion 
that would not fight, I was desirous of 
making certain that this should not be the 

Accordingly the lion was mittened and 
muzzled, but only with the aid of six strong 
men, and I entered the cage unarmed and 
stripped to the waist What happened was in 
direct opposition to my expectations; bagging 
his paws and encasing his head in a wire 
cage only served to enrage the brute, and no 
sooner had I stepped inside than he crouched 
preparatory to springing upon me. His eyes 
ablaze with fury, he hurled himself through 
the air, but missed, for I had slipped aside, 
and before he had time to recover I caught 
him round the throat with my left arm and 
round the middle with my right, and, though 
his weight was five hundred and thirty 
pounds, I lifted him as high as my shoulder, 
gave him a huge hug to instil into his mind 
that he must respect me, and tossed him to 
the floor. Roaring with rage, the beast 
rushed fiercely towards me, raising his huge 
paw to strike a heavy blow at my head. As 
his paw cut through space I felt the air 
fairly whistle, and realized not only my lucky 
escape, but the lion's weak point and my 
strong one. If he only struck me once I 
knew it would be my coup de gr&ce y and I 
took particular care that he never should. 

As I ducked my head to miss the 
blow I succeeded in getting a good 
grip round the lion's body, with my chest 
touching his and his feet over my shoulders, 
and hugged him with all my strength. The 
more he scratched and tore the harder I 
hugged him, arid though his feet were pro- 
tected by mittens his claws tore through my 
tights and parts of my skin. But I had him 

"MY reminiscences:' 


as in a vice \ his mighty 
efforts to get a ( way 
proved of no avail. 

Before leaving the 
cage, however, I was 
determined to try just 
one other feat. Moving 
away from the lion, I 
stood with my back 
towards him, thus openly 
inviting him to jump on 
me, He at once did so, 
and sprang right on my 
back. Throwing up my 
arms I gripped his head, 
then caught him firmly 
by the neck and in one 
motion shot him clean 
over my head, assisted 
by the animal's own im- 
petus^ and launched him 
before me like a sack of 
sawdust, the action eaus 
ing him to turn a com- 
plete somersault. While 
he lay where he fell, 
dazed, Colonel Bone 
excitedly fired a couple 
of revolvers into the 
cage in case the beast 
should desire to show 
further fight, and un 
locked the door and let 
me out, my legs and 
neck bleeding, and with 
scratches all over my 
body. But for these trifles I cared nothing. 
I felt that I had conquered that lion, and 
that 1 should have little difficulty in master- 
ing it on the next occasion in public. 

When the hour came for the actual con- 
test the huge tent was packed to overflowing. 
First came the operation of getting the lion 
rniltened and muzzled. For this purpose a 
stout three-inch pole had been driven deeply 
into the ground in an annexe of the big tent. 
After considerable difficulty the lion was 
lassoed round the neck and legs by six men, 
the ropes being passed through an iron lonp 
at the top of the pole, This having been 
done t they commenced to haul the lion up 
the pole. 

But this was not to his Highness's liking, 
and f giving one terrific leap, he snapped the 
solid iron pole like a match, and was on the 
point of bounding into the tent, where forty 
thousand people were packed like sardines. 
At all costs such a contingency had to be 
prevented, and, recognising the crisis, I knew 


a Photograph, 6* Warwick Hrookn, 

I must act, and quickly, if the catastrophe 
was to be avoided. 

Everybody but myself and Colonel Bone 
fled, despite their boasts of a moment earlier. 
Quick as thought I snatched up the broken 
pole and struck the lion across the nose with 
sufficient force to cow him, without inflicting 
any injury, and at the same time I shouted 
to the attendants to bring up the smaller cage, 
into which 1 pushed the brute. 

Then came the scene in the arena. The 
lion appeared first, and as I entered the whole 
place resounded with roars of wild cheers. 
The moment I came into the ring, however, 
the lion cowered down. By intuition he 
seemed to realize that the previous combat 
had been a fair one and that I was his 
master. His whole attitude, indeed, was as 
one who would say, "There was no fluke 
about that other match." Try as I would I 
could not get t^at beast to fight — the very 

heart, youknowj most" beasts are cowards, and 



having met his match at the rehearsal, the 
lion had no appetite for another struggle. 
"The crowd will be terribly disappointed," 
I thought to myself, as I tried to goad the beast 
to make a battle. At last he made a bound 
towards me, but I quickly dodged, swung 
round and picked him up, and then tossed 
him down. Scarcely two minutes did that fight 
last. The lion, recognizing that I was stronger 
than he, would fight no more, and when I 
lifted him up and walked round the arena 
with him on my shoulders, he remained as 
firm as a rock and as quiet as an old sheep. 
That lion was clearly conquered. 

There are many more incidents which I 
feel would perhaps interest readers of The 
Strand Magazine, but, unfortunately, space 
presses. 1 must hurry forward with my story 
at all speed. Let me, therefore, shortly refer 
to my tour of Australia and New Zealand, 
which, later on, I took in pursuance of my 
desire to visit every corner of the civilized 
world in order to make my ideals in physical 
culture known ; for, although the salary I 
received for my public displays has always 
been a very large one, I regarded public 
showmanship as only a stepping-stone to the 
day when, through my instrumentality, people 
all the world over would thoroughly realize 
that systematic physical culture is a necessity 
to real health and strength. 

Accordingly, Mrs. Sandow and I, accom- 
panied by our friend Miss Edwardes, paid a 
visit to Australia and New Zealand. I am 
proud to say that everywhere we went I had 
ample reason to be gratified by the warmth 
of my welcome. From Perth, where I had 
the opportunity of furthering my views on 
physical culture by lectures and demonstra- 
tions, we proceeded to Kalgoorlie. From 
Kalgoorlie we returned to Fremantle, and 
from there we set sail for Adelaide, where 
we passed a fortnight. During that period 
I found time to give some preliminary in- 
struction in physical culture to the police 
force of the city and the members of the 
fire brigade, in addition to superintending 
the exercise of a squad of non- __ 

commissioned officers, in the \ 
presence of Acting-Command- 
ant Colonel Stuart, and witness- 
ing a display on the lines of 
my system by the lads of Our 
Boys' Institute. 

At Ballarat an amusing hap- 
pening occurs to my mind. I 
was seated in a tram-car, and 
had entered into conversation 
with an old gentleman sitting 

beside me, when I began to cough, through 
a lozenge which I had in my mouth "going 
the wrong way." My kindly neighbour was 
most solicitous for my welfare, and in com- 
menting on my cough urged me in the most 
earnest manner to practise Sandow exercises, 
" as they are," he said, " excellent things for 
toning up the system." 

Of my visit to India later on I could write 
much, for to me it was full of interest, and 
on all sides I was received with the greatest 
enthusiasm. In not a few cases I am proud 
to say I was able to effect several cures of 
invalids whose recovery doctors had given 
up as hopeless, and one prominent Indian 
who had been in terribly bad health for 
years presented me with a cheque for ten 
thousand pounds for bringing about his 

By the way, I must tell you about a 
certain amusing incident which occurred 
during my visit to India. In company with 
a well-known personage, at whose house I 
was a guest at the time, we started to motor 
to a town some forty miles away. We had 
not gone far before I noticed that at regular 
intervals on the route various carriages and 
pairs were stationed. At first I could not 
make out whether they were there by accident 
or by design, but later on I heard that for fear 
the motor might, perhaps, break down my 
host had ordered a carriage and pair to be 
waiting at every mile on the route. Each 
carriage and pair, I would mention, followed 
the car until it arrived at the place where the 
next carriage and pair was waiting. Such 
detailed solicitude is surely convincing 
evidence enough of the innate courtesy of 
His Majesty's loyal subjects in India. 

And now I must lay down my pen. I fear 
that already, perhaps, my story has gone to 
greater length than may retain your interest. 
Before bidding you au revoir, however, I 
should like to say that, if any of the incidents 
I have told about my life may seem to have 
been related in boastful spirit, this in reality 
is not so. Of my health and strength I need 
scarcely say I feel not a little 
1 proud ; but, as a matter of fact, 
that feeling of pride is altogether 
subservient to a feeling of grati- 
tude that Nature should have 
endowed me with spirit to carry 
out my determination to prove 
to the world that these qualities 
are not mere accidents, but are 
wiihin the reach of all who will Y (9PV$f fflSJ^/M* r ?&* me °f 
physical exercises. 


Tbe Winner of our £50 Prize for ike Best Medical Story. 



[We recently inserted the following advertisement in the Medical papers : " £50 for the Best Medical 
Story is offered by the Propnetors of THE STRAND MAGAZINE. The story may be either fact or 
fiction, but not exceeding 6,000 words in length. It must be written by a qualified medical man and must 
be sufficiently interesting and well* written to justify its publication on its own merits." In response to this 
offer a very large number of stories reached this office, the best of which was adjudged to be that written 
by Dr. J. Bart Rous, to whom a cheque for £50 has accordingly been forwarded, and whose excellent 
story we now have the pleasure of putting before our readers.] 

& *P§ft |l two men awoke with such 
S*3 ~Pc^ rg unequal zest for the day as 
{& J^K^to Cecil and Tom Lyndover, 
r^ tffiSft^ whose respective mental out- 
i— jUQI looks upon that fresh morning 
of the ripening spring were as wide apart as 
were their natures and 'their pursuits. Tom, 
the light hearted, excitable young cub, whose 
only claim to distinction was his spirited 
captaincy of the football team of Queen 
Anne's Hospital Medical School, would, 
indeed, at hardly any time have been 
credited with his close relationship to Lynd- 
over the poet, whose five years of productive 
work had presented such an enigma to 
literary London. Although the medical 
student shared his brother's chambers in 
the old square that took its name from his 
hospital, and though he was proud of the 
assurance that Cecil was a rising man, he 
felt at least a liitle of the unimaginative 
person's secret contempt for the poetic ideal. 
Indeed, so little did he know of his brother s 
work tint he had been caused some embarrass- 
ment when an acquaintance once had asked 
him to account for the extraordinary transition 
of the poet's genius from the beauty and 
abandonment of " The Joyous Pagan," that 
first volume of lyrics which had gained him 
the title of "Catullus" from the young irre- 
sponsibles who acclaimed such daring verse, 
to the stately measures of " The Knightly 
Vision," his recent poem, the strange austerity 
of which had so disgusted his former 
followers, although men who could judge 
seriously of poetic reality knew that Lynd- 
over's true heart had spoken in that 
threnody upon Bertram Darcy, his dead 

VoL xxx «.— 20 

But on this of all mornings Tom's thoughts 
were far remote from Cecil's achievements, 
for had he not slept the sleep of success and 
awoken with the delightful thrill of realization 
that after more than one rebuff he had last 
ni^ht satisfied the examiners who guard so 
jealously the diploma of the Royal Colleges 
of Physicians and Surgeons ? In a word, was 
he not "qualified"? Small wonder, then, 
that Mr. Thomas Lyndover, M.R.C.S., 
L. R.C. P., burst into song through the shaving 
suds, and had to minister professionally to his 
wounded chin as a speedy consequence. 

But of Cecil in the adjoining bedroom it 
can hardly be said that he had slept, unless 
that state be called sleep in which a turbulent 
flood of words surges remorselessly through 
the aching brain, w r ith an insistence unknown 
in daytime wakefulness. The words that had 
tormented Cecil were the echoes of his own 
passion, the vain pleadings which he had 
poured forth to a woman's heart at the very 
hour of Tom's victory in the Examination 
Hall, the hour to which the poet's hopes and 
fears had been trending since Dorothy had 
left London to nurse that long case in Wales 
from which she had been released but yester- 
day. How he hated the necessity under 
which she worked, and how he had begged to 
be allowed to take care of her, and in return 
to have her always near him — his inspiration 
and his living song ! But sweetly and gravely 
she had checked him without chiding, and 
had asked him to try and remain simply the 
friend he had shown himself since the terrible 
telegram had come from India a year ago to 
announce the death, while on cholera duty, 
of Capiairj Bertram Darcy, her plighted lover 
and Cecil's dearest: comrade. 

And now that full daylight had come, 



weary as he was of his restless bed, he still 
lay thinking of what had passed in the ten 
years since he and Bertram had come up 
from Cambridge to conquer the world and 
had settled in those old chambers, when Tom 
was still a schoolboy. Tom, who had burst 
into his room in the small hours after keeping 
high revel with his friends, and had shouted 
his good news into Cecil's sympathetic ears. 
How vividly his victory had recalled that day 
on which Bertram had taken his degree, to their 
infinite delight, and the dinner-party they had 
given later to celebrate his chum's election to 
a house surgeoncy at Queen Anne's ! Was it 
not on that evening that Cecil had first met 
Stanley Gaddesden, the brilliant student 
whose promise had been speedily fulfilled by 
his appointment to the staff of his hospital 
and by the mark he had already made in his 
profession ? And then had come that later 
day, when, in defiance of all hospital rules — 
Dame Nature having made her own stronger 
than any Board of Governors — Bertram and 
Gaddesden had brought round to the cham- 
bers the two staff-nurses and fellow-workers 
who had promised to marry the ardent young 
surgeons ; the day on which Dorothy Maxwell 
had first come into Cecil's life, and he had 
looked on her only as Bertram's beloved, 
and, therefore, a lady to be welcomed worthily. 
And a stronger recollection still was that 
of the last meeting in the chambers for 
Bertram's farewell, the night before he had 
sailed to carve out his fortune in the Indian 
Medical Service, so that he could return in a 
few years for Dorothy and enter into that 
happiness which Gaddesden and Evelyn had 
just found. On that night Bertram had com- 
mitted Dorothy to the care of Gaddesden 
and his wife, who had been her closest friend 
at Queen Anne's, and to Cecil himself, 
begging them to watch tenderly in his 
absence over the parentless girl whose doctor 
father's death had left her with no provision 
for her livelihood except her willing hands 
and splendid spirit. 

Then, within a year, Cecil had found him- 
self so loving Dorothy that all unwittingly 
she altered the whole current of his life, 
not only giving his work the impulse of 
nobility which it had always lacked, but 
releasing his whole soul from a growing 
bondage of sense into which he had drifted, 
to the infinite shame of his finer nature. 

And, as he thought of the bitter-sweet 
years that had followed, one memory arose 
from them supreme — the recollection of his 
long illness in that very bedroom, the weary 
Struggle with typhoid fever through which 

Dorothy had come to help him, throwing 
up the sister's post to which she had been 
advanced at Queen Anne's to take the chief 
share in nursing him, because he was her 
absent lover's honoured friend. Would she 
had never come to witness that shameful 
night when, in her presence and hers alone, 
his courage had ebbed from him and, haunted 
by the reproach of the art which he had once 
debased, he had shown her that he was a 
man unfit for the imminent summons of 
death. What cheering words she had 
spoken ; what sweet encouragement she had 
given him ! But after that cowardice could 
he ever hope to succeed Bertram in her 
heart — Bertram, her strong, clean - lived 
lover, who had died unquestioning at the 
call of his service, with no last sight of the 
woman he had looked to marry within 
the year? No; Cecil felt his chance was 
small enough. But for one thing he could 
thank God — that by word or deed he had 
never betrayed his trust, for, when he 
had found himself loving Dorothy past all 
restraint, after she had nursed him back 
to health, he had kept away from the 
Gaddesdens, who had fulfilled their promise 
to Bertram by taking her to live with them 
in the intervals of her work as a private 
nurse upon which she had embarked. 

Cecil, indeed, had not seen her between 
the day on which he left London after his 
illness to pass his convalescence in his 
Devonshire home until a year later, when the 
news had come of Bertram's death. Then 
he had gone to her, not to tell his love, but 
to comfort her, and she had found real 
support in his charming gift of sympathy, 
whilst later he earned her deep gratefulness 
for the poem which he published to her 
lover's memory. So intimate did they 
become during those months in which the 
Gaddesdens had insisted on keeping her 
from work that Cecil for the first time 
had begun to hope, for he felt that Dorothy 
must know of his undeclared passion. But 
he had kept it to himself, and when she 
went away to Wales they had parted simply 
as friends. Only yesterday she had returned 
to Wimpole Street and he had gone to 
welcome her. At last he dared hope that 
the live dog might prove better than the 
dead lion, but his hopes, it seemed, had 
been built too high. This queen amongst 
women still chose to remain faithful to her 
dead lord, to eat the bread of dependence 
and drink the water of bitterness — for 
so the MfJig^^lW^i: annnyances of her 
calling appeared to nis" jealous eyes — 




rather than accept the position which his 
fair inheritance and distinguished talent 
allowed him to put at her feet. And when 
she woutd not take him for her own sake he 
had pleaded his pent-up devotion during the 
years of trial, and had told her of what her 
influence meant to his life and work. On 
that plea he thought she had wavered* but, 
though he had pressed it with all the fire of 
his nature, she had recovered her position and 
bidden him go with the gentle "good night " 
that had so mocked his sleepless hours, 

And, thinking of how it had all ended, 
Cecil remembered that he had left the house 
without seeing Gaddesden about that little 
trouble which had been worrying him so 
much lately, and on which he had made up 
his mind to ask his friehd's professional 
advice* Indeed, that sore, hard place on the 
side of his tongue had not been content with 
worrying him ; it had begun to whisper very 
ugly possibilities to him, since Tom had told 
him of -a poor fellow who had just died in 
Queen Anne's after an operation for cancer 
of the tongue, to which he had refused to 
submit until he was in a desperate condition. 
So it was a troubled and even haggard face 
that greeted Tom at breakfast, although Cecil 
was not too wrapped in his own sorrows to 
withhold his hearty plaudits for that young 
hero's achievement, and to listen at least 
politely to his circumstantial version of his 

varied encounters of the previous evening — a 
story so complicated with technical details 
that Cecil gathered little from it, except that 
one of the examiners was a beast, but that 
two of them were "rippers/' a majority which 
had doubtless accounted for the issue, 

Cecil ate little, and as soon as Tom had 
stopped chattering the boy snatched up his 
hat to rush over to the hospital, but was 
unexpectedly pulled up by his brother, who 
said, "Stop a minute, Tom. Would you like 
a job?" 

"Any money in it? Who J s the patient?" 
he promptly replied. 

"Not much, Fm afraid. You see, it's 

" What, you ? Yes, you are looking seedy. 
What's the trouble?" " 

"That's what I want to know. It's a 
sore place I've had on my tongue for some 
time " 

"Been smoking too much, most likely. 
Let's have a look at it" 

Tom took his brother over to the window, 
He started to make the examination with a 
jest, but as soon as he saw the tongue his 
face grew serious, and within a minute he 
was carefully pressing his finger tips beneath 
Cecil's chin, as though feeling for some 
deeper-seated mischief. 

<[ WHli'E^Battf ^ICHid^tHat bad tooth?" 
he said at length, 




"Gh, for months," replied Cecil. "It 
worried me a good bit at first, but it left off 
aching and I forgot about it." 

" H'ru — pity ! It's been worrying your 
tongue a good bit, and you ought to have it 

** What — the tongue ? " gasped Cecil. 

"No, you old fool— the tooth! 51 replied 
Tom, rudely. 

"If that's all the trouble, of course I will. 
But rs it all ? " 

"I think so; but I'm not going to take 
any chances. Look here, Cee — I'm just 
poing over to Queen Anne's, and it's 
(laddesden's morning there. I II ask him to 
look in on his way home You can take 
what he says for gospel But don't go 
worrying; 1m sure it's all right, really." 
And the impetuous boy flung himself out of 
the room, nearly knocking down the house- 
keeper, who was coming in with the tray for 
the breakfast things, 

In the hour that passed before Haddesden 
came Cecil, the outcast of fortune, lived 
through a year of torment. Tom's reluctance 
to acquit him forthwith of all suspicion of a 
serious trouble strengthened the fear he 

had been trying resolutely to 
banish since he had first heard 
about poor John Mason, the 
unfortunate " tongue case " 
at Queen Anne's, and which 
only his interview with 
Dorothy had driven out of 
his mind. Whilst the house- 
keeper was tidying the room 
she picked up from the floor 
a large book which Tom in 
his exuberance had ungrate- 
fully flung down the night 
before as a token of his 
release from the shackles of 
study. Cecil idly took it up 
and saw that it was Sir 
William Galloway's work on 
surgery* Hesitating a minute, 
he turned to the section 
dealing with diseases of the 
tongue, and read therein that 
which it was not good for 
him to know. 

When Tom returned with 
Gaddesden, the big, brisk sur- 
geon, who had come ready to 
chaff Cecil out of his fancies, 
they found him sitting, 
staring out of the window, 
the evident victim of gloomy 
thoughts. He jumped up, 
turning a resolutely smiling face to his visitor, 
who, after a speedy greeting, came straight to 
the business in hand with a few words of 
friendly reproach that Cecil had not consulted 
him earlier. His investigation seemed to his 
patient to be much the same as his brother 
had made, except that the practised fingers 
gave him less pain, and no shade came over 
the cheery face. After asking Cecil his age 
and a few other simple questions, he said, 
confidently, "A simple ulcer, III be bound, 
lorn was quite right You've been starving 
your dentist in favour of your tobacconist, 
and you must reverse your favours. But I T d 
like to keep an eye on you, I'll look in 
*next week," and out came the surgeon's 

" Stop ! ,J said Cecil. " You may think me 
a hysterical fool, but I want a straight answer 
to a straight question. Are you perfectly 
certain that this isn't cancer?" 

Gaddesden looked hard at him and 
answered quietly : — 

"No; but I h m practically certain. You 
must try to put \h^\ idea out of your head," 



assurance. If I have to go on like this, I 
won't be responsible for myself." 

" But what do you want me to do ? " 

" To make sure at once, as I know you can." 

"But how?" 

" Tom's told me how you diagnose cancer 
by the microscope." 

"You mean you want me to cut a little 
shaving off the tongue and have a look at it?" 

" Yes, if that will settle it one way or the 

" Probably it would, but I should like 
something more definite to go on before " 

" You'll torture me if you refuse. Come, 
you can't deny that there is a remote chance 
of this being cancer. If it is, the sooner we 
know the better. If it isn't, I'm begging you 
to disprove it. That's fair, surely ? " 

Again Gaddesden considered his reply. 

"Perhaps you're right, Cecil. If that 
tongue had been an ordinary man's I 
shouldn't touch it until I'd tried it with 
a simple lotion for a few weeks, for I'm 
morally certain it would all clear up. But 
with your temperament it's different. I'll do 
what you want. Tom, do you mind getting 
my bag? It's in the car. I think there's 
cocaine and everything in it." 

As the young man ran off, pleased to be of 
service, Gaddesden put his hand on Cecil's 
shoulder, »ying, " Dorothy told us how it 
was with you. We're so sorry, old chap. 
But you mustn't go punishing her by keeping 
away. Your friendship means a lot to her, 
and it may mean still more yet. You just 
come round to dinner to-night — you'll be all 
right by then — and I'll ask Churchill to send 
the report to Wimpole Street so you can 
know before you leave." 

"Who's Churchill?" 

" Our j>athologist at Queen Anne's. I shall 
take the specimen to him to examine. Of 
course, it'll have to be prepared first — cut in 
thin sections and stained. But Churchill will 
actually examine the slide." 

" He's a trustworthy man, of course ? " 

" Certainly, or he wouldn't be where he is." 

" And Galloway ? " 

" Sir Thomas ? An absolutely sound man. 
But what's he got to do with it ? " 

" Only," said Cecil, " that I've seen his 
book, and he says no man with lingual 
cancer can hope to live two years unless he 
has his tongue removed, and even then the 
chances are against him." 

" Which is just why we're going to prove 
that you haven't got it," replied the surgeon. 
" Now tell me about Dorothy." 

But Tom had come back with the bag. . . . 

' At Cecil's own request Gaddesden had 
told his wife and Dorothy of the question 
which the evening was to decide, but by 
tacit consent it had not been mentioned 
between the fellow -diners. Splendidly as 
the poet had been behaving, as the clock on 
the pillared mantelpiece chimed out the 
successive quarters after nine he found him- 
self straining to catch any sound in the street 
below that might herald the messenger of 
his fate. After the little operation, which 
had caused him no inconvenience but a 
transient soreness, Gaddesden had returned 
to the chambers to tell him that the report 
had been promised by ten o'clock in the 
evening. Churchill had been away from the 
laboratory, but one of his assistants had 
promised to put the specimen in hand, so 
that his chief might examine it when he 
arrived after dinner, as was his custom when 
he had been called away during regular 
working hours. So Gaddesden had left a 
note for the pathologist, explaining that the 
case was urgent, and asking that the report 
might be sent to his house by hand. 

An ugly skeleton of doubt and dread had 
sat invisible by the guest at that little square 
dinner-party — invisible, for Dorothy had 
never known him more responsive to the 
alluring playfulness she loved to assume with 
her pretty clothes when she was released 
from uniform in her "unprofessional" breath- 
ing times. Het bright nonsense during 
dinner had sprung from no lightness of 
heart, for she sympathized deeply with 
Cecil's hidden anxiety, and she wanted only 
to help him wear his smiling mask, as the 
poor fellow recognized most gratefully. But 
after they had gone upstairs he was no longer 
his brilliant self, and the laughter flickered 
and died. They were all beginning to feel 
something of Cecil's strain, when, after a 
minute's silence, there sounded the distant 
vibration of an electric bell. 

Cecil walked to the window and pulled 
aside the blind, but was prevented by the 
outside balcony from looking down upon the 
doorstep. He had risen really to hide a 
conscious pallor, though his voice was steady 
as he said, " I suppose that will be Churchill's 
note ? " He heard Gaddesden answer, " Very 
likely, old fellow," and then he saw Dorothy 
standing at his side. She touched his arm 
and said, half appealing, half encouraging, 
"Oh, Cecil, it can't be what you fear— it 
simply can't." There was a caress not only 
in the action bur* in the word, for she had 
nev^r bpefore directly called him by his 
Christian nam?. He moved his lips to 

i S 8 


answer, but a flood of feeling, curbed 
resolutely since the morning, compelled his 
silence, and he was positively relieved by the 
entrance of the butler carrying an envelope 
upon a tray. As he delivered it to Gaddesden, 
Cecil noticed it was unstamped. 

They were all standing now, and the 
surgeon, with unconcealed haste, tore open 
the fateful letter. He pulled it from its 
cover, and there fell from it a little oblong 
slip of glass on which was something looking 
like a smear of paint. He picked it up, and 
Cecil watched him as he read carefully two 
pages of small writing. 

It was Dorothy who broke the silence, 
" Tell us, Stanley," she said* 

" I must go to the consulting-room first," 
he answered. " I want to have a look at this 
under the microscope. Come, too, CeciL" 

The thirty stairs and twenty paces that lay 
between those two rooms seemed as long a 
journey as the poet had ever made, for as he 
covered them there came upon his spirit, as 
once before, the presage of the bitterness of 
death. He found Gaddesden adjusting the 
mirror of his microscope to catch the light 
of a small shaded lamp. 


" Wait a minute, Stanley," he said. 
"What's the verdict? Guilty?" 
Gaddesden looked at him squarely, 
"I'd give five years of my life not to 
have to say it, but Churchill has upset my 

" You mean it is— cancer ? " 
"So he says." 

"But you t man, What do you think ? " 
" Lyndover, this morning I spoke to you 
hopefully. I honestly believed it to be what 
I said— a simple ulcer. I wouldn't have tried 
to set you in a fool's paradise. But now- 
well, I've never known Churchill give a 
stronger opinion, and he's sent me the slide 
to back it." 

He put his eye to the microscope and 
focused it, then turned on a different object- 
lens and focused more carefully, shifting the 
slide about upon its stage for perhaps a 
minute. Then he looked up and said simply : 
"You poor old fellowl" 

''Then you cant reverse the judgment? 
And the sentence is — in Galloway's book?" 

" Let me have another look at that 
tongue/' said Gaddesden, instead of answer- 
ing, and Cecil submitted himself once more 

to his careful 
examination. He 
shook his head as 
though sorely 

"I'm afraid we 
must believe the 
microscope," he 

"Then there's 
no hope ? " 

**On the con- 
trary. Whatever 
the mischief is, it's 
quite localized ; 
and if we decide 
on a thorough 
o[ oration you'll 
have every chance 
of getting quite rid 
of it." 

** If I have my 
tongue removed, 
you mean ? * 

"I'm afraid 
that's it/' 

" Is there any 
chance of the 
operation killing 
none At this early 



stage the risk is little more than that of the 
anaesthetic. But we won't talk about it 
to-night You go quietly home and I'll give 
you something to make you sleep." 

11 Not till I've asked you something. I'm 
fairly face to face with things now, and before 
they get hold of me I want a promise from 

" Any mortal thing, old chap " 

"Oh, it's no ordinary trifle. It's about 
Dorothy. Remember, Bertram went — just a 
year ago. Now it's my turn to think about 
going. As far as we can see, you're going to 
stop. Swear to me that you'll go on looking 
after Dorothy in the splendid way you have 
done — until some other man takes the duty 
from you. Swear it, Gaddesden. It's a 
solemn hour, an hour of judgment ,? 

" Hush ! You're overstrung ; and no 
wonder. But, of course, you may always 
trust me to do the best by Sister. Why, 
Evelyn would look after that. And you 
must let me do the best by you." 

Engaged on such vital issues, they had not 
seen the door open and Dorothy enter the 
dark end of the room. Hearing her own 
name, she came forward quickly, saying, 
" Evelyn would like to speak to you, Stanley. 
I'll stay and keep your patient company." 
And the good man was not sorry for an 
honourable retreat from an encounter which 
was beginning to strain the limits of his 
composure, for, used as he was to confront 
human sorrow, the daily tragedy of his 
calling had never before come home to him 
so near. 

When the door closed behind him, Dorothy 
gently led Cecil to a large saddle-bag chair 
by the fire and, making him sit in it, settled 
herself upon its broad leather arm, whilst her 
lover wondered greatly at the change the day 
had wrought in her demeanour. 

"Now tell me," she said. "Stanley has 
given you bad news ? " 

" Yes, Dorothy." 

" Oh, Cecil, I wish it were me ! But is 
he absolutely certain about it ?" 

"Yes, since that brass bogy's spoken." 
And Cecil pointed to the microscope. " He 
looks sleek enough, doesn't he, with his 
shining body and crystal eye. But he's a 
cruel bogy. Do you know what he's told 
me ? That I've got to have my tongue cut 
out or else " 

14 Oh, don't, Cecil, don't !" Dorothy was 
almost crying. 

" I'm sorry, dear. I'm a selfish beast to 
try to upset you too. And I owe you 
another apology. Last night I made you an 

offer. I didn't know then what we do now, 
but the shadow of it had crossed my mind, 
only I persistently refused to let it take 
shape. But I ought to have faced it out 
before I spoke to you." 

" I've come to help you face it out." 

" I know you have, and I sha'n't forget it, 
but now all I can do is to take back the 
offer of a maimed life — that could never have 
been fit for your service." 

" But you don't understand, Cecil. I 
won't give it you back. I've come to accept 

"What do you mean? Don't play with 

" I'm not playing, dear. I've come to say 
I will marry you." 

" What ! With this ? You will marry me 

She came to his eager arms unresisting, 
smiling as his hand touched her face to press 
back the soft sweep of hair from her forehead 
whilst he searched her gracious eyes to read 
their secret. 

" Why not ? " she said. " Didn't you tell 
me that when I was tired of fighting the 
world alone I might come and rest here ? " 

" My darling!" he murmured, " my darling! 
But you mustn't. I can't let you." 

" Yes, you can, and I'll tell you why. 
Haven't you often grumbled at the way 
people treat their unfortunate nurses ? Well, 
I happen to know there's a patient Stanley 
may want me to take for him. I've made up 
my mind that if I nurse him at all it's going 
to be as his wife. Then perhaps he'll treat 
me with becoming dignity ! " 

" But do you realize what it means ? Think 
of it. I sha'n't be able to speak, shall I, 
when it's done ? " 

" Better than you think, very likely. Well, 
enough for me to understand you, anyway." 

" But that's not all. If it were only this 
mutilation I might let you do it. But its 
more. It means probably that I've only got 
a very few years to live. The thing's almost 
bound to grow again. It's no good denying 
it. I've seen the book about it." 

"Then you didn't understand it, and 
you're not going to send me away. A pretty 
end to all your vows ! Besides, think of the 
poetry. We shall be able to write, oh, books 
and books and books ! " 

" Ah, my darling ! You do really know 
then how you help me?" 

" I think I know what love means." 

" It means lift:, and so dot*s my work. To 
maJ<<i only one compelling song that they 
must listen to, wouldn't it be glorious? 



Who would mind going after that? But 
Dorothy — you don't really mean that you 
would be ready to marry me before " 

l 'I do mean it- I've planned it all out. 
Stanley will give you a few weeks' grace. 
And when you're better you shall take me 
right away, and we'll spend the summer 
wherever you like," 

"Oh, Dorothy! I know such a cottage 
on the Moor! But what does it all mean? 
I can't let you marry me just because of 
this trouble.' 5 

"No, dear; it isn't that You've shown 
me my own mind — that's all I catvt 
explain it quite.'' 

" Then it wasn't only the memory of 
Bertram that prevented you?" 

" I thought it was, but now I know it 
wasn't. Perhaps I'm fanciful, but I firmly 
believe I'm doing what Bertram wants 
me to/' 

" Because I was his friend ? " 

H Because I want you." 

" You're tempting me beyond my strength, 
I >orothy. Halloa ! What's that ? " 

They both jumped up as a masterful 
knock sounded on the front door, fol- 
lowed by a sustained peal upon the bell 
which brought the butler's footsteps hurry- 
ing past the con- 
sulting room. 

" A late call for 
Stanley/' said 
Dorothy; and as 
she spoke the door 
opened, and an 
excited bearded 
man was shown 
into the room, the 
servant switching 
on the central 

11 1 beg your 
pardon, miss j I 
didn't know there 
was anyone here, 11 
he said, 

" All right, Wil- 
son," answered 
Dorothy, " If you 
want Mr. Gaddes- 
den he's in the 

" No, he's not ; 
he's here," said 
Stanley, entering at 
the same moment. 
I( I heard Churchill 
shouting for me in 

the hall Well, where are you going to 
take me ? " 

" No, it's not a case, but it's just as 
urgent," said the visitor, 

,( Wait a minute. Do you know Sister 
Maxwell? I think she left Queen Anne's 
before you came— didn't you, Sister? And 
this is my friend Lyndover— Dr, Churchill" 

But Churchill was in no temper for 

11 Miss Maxwell and Mr. Lyndover will 
excuse us, I'm sure. I won't keep you long, 
and it's something really important" 

"Hold hard," said Gaddesden. "Is it 
anything to do with that report you sent half 
an hour ago ? " 

"That's just what it is about/' 

"Then we can all slop and listen, because 
it concerns Lyndover, and we all know about 
it, unfortunately." 

Cecil thought Churchill had suddenly Iom 
his wits, He turned round and stared at 
him for some seconds and then gasped 
out : — 

" What ! Are ww the patient ?" 

" I am the patient, and I have to thank 
you for—— " 

" Thank me ! Kick me, you mean ! I 
apologize a thousand times and I congratulate 




you as thoroughly. You must have been 
enduring " 

11 But, my good sir," cried Cecil, " what 
do you mean ? " 

" What ! " roared Gaddesden. " Have you 
made a mistake ? " 

" That's what I have done. I'm abjectly 
sorry, but the slides got mixed. I don't 
believe such a thing ever happened before, 
and I'll take good care it doesn't again- — -" 

" Thank God ! Cecil ! How splendid ! 
And I was right, after all," and the surgeon 
nearly wrung off his friend's hand. Then, 
turning to the contrite pathologist, he said, 
more calmly, " I'm sorry for this mistake, 
Churchill. It should never have happened." 

" I can't excuse it, though I cab explain it. 
I have two assistants, you know, Blyth and 
Sumner. They work in the laboratory under 
my room. When you brought the specimen 
this morning and found I was out you gave it 
to Blyth to prepare. When I came in this 
evening both my men had left and I found 
your note on my bench with the usual pile 
of slides to examine. Amongst them was 
one marked 'Tongue. J. M. — Gaddesden.' 
It was the only tongue case in the batch, and 
I naturally concluded it was the one the note 
referred to. You see, Gaddesden, you didn't 
mention any initials, and it never occurred to 
me that 'J. M.' might be another patient." 

"Churchill, it's I that want kicking. Go 

" Well, I sent the report off to you, and 
was looking through the rest of the batch 
when, to my astonishment, in walked Blyth. 
* I've come back to finish that slide for Mr. 
Gaddesden,' he said. 'What slide?' said I. 
'I sent off one report half an hour ago.' 
'But he only left one specimen,' he answered 
— 4 a tongue case. Here's the section, and 
it looks to me quite innocent' Then it 
turned out that the specimen on which I'd 
reported was taken from a man named John 
Mason, an operation case of yours which 
Sumner had dealt with in the ordinary routine 
and put on my bench. Blyth hadn't seen 
it at all." 

" I know, of course," said Gaddesden. 
"And the proper specimen?" 

" Undoubtedly a simple ulcer. There's not 
a trace of malignancy. Of course, I've rushed 
straight round with it, as I hoped to be able 
to retrieve the mistake before the patient 
heard of it, but it seems I was too late.'' 

Cecil hardly heard any more. He was 
conscious of another burst of congratulation 
and excuses as he sank down in the big 
chair with his head in his hands, utterly 
exhausted with the strain of it all. He heard 
Churchill talk Gaddesden out of the room. 
Then, as one in a dream, he felt Dorothy's 
arms close gently round him. "Then I'm 
not to lose you ? " he whispered. 

"Lose me! Now? Why?" 

"Why, I've no claim now, even on your 

" But I've told you that it's not pity. I 
want you." 

"Tell me why, Dorothy." 

"Well, then, listen, and I'll try. Years 
ago— '■ in the typhoid time — you know what 
you told me that night." 

" Can I forget it ? I was afraid to die. 
Don't punish me." 

"Oh, Cecil, I tried so hard to forget, 
because I shouldn't have known it if I hadn't 
nursed you. But through all our friendship 
that little shadow has been there. I fought 
with it — I fought hard, for you've been 
sweetness itself to me always ; but when you 
asked me yesterday to marry you, it came 
between us. I thought it was Bertram for- 
bidding me." 

" Then it was really the shadow of the 

" Yes. But to-day you've scattered it for 

" Then can you let this extraordinary 
chance " 

" Hush ! We call these things chance, but 
they're more. They're chances — God's 
chances, and you've taken yours like the 
man you are." 

"The man you've made me !" 

" You've faced death as Bertram did, and 
his was quick ^nd merciful, whilst this — oh ! 
you've faced it because you love me, and 
that's more than all the poetry. I'm proud 
of you — I'm proud of you — Cecil, my 
husband ! " 

Then the poet rejoiced that even as his 
body had been tested by the surgeon's micro- 
scope, so his soul had been searched out 
under God's dark lens of Death, and in the 
embrace of their betrothal he forgot his five 
years of waiting and his twelve hours of agony, 
for he knew that in such a love as he had won, 
and in such a love alone, he could find the 
fulfilment of his utmost genius. 

VoL xjtjcut.— 2t 

by Google 

Original from 

i:i£ t^ 

Its Romance and Humour. 

Hearken, the King is ahoul to speak ! 
Oyez ! Oyez ! J Tis the speech of the King ■ 

BOUT this time each year the 
King's Speech commands 
universal attention* 

The King's Speech is 
couched, of coarse, in the 
King's English ; but it is not 
on account of its eloquence or felicity of 
phrase that it evokes the deepest interest of 
His Majesty's lieges. It is rather because 


] fcwff t\ 

the King's Speech is a kind f>f recurring 
oracle upon which the clever brains of our 
constitutional rulers have been at work — a 
kind of programme and prophecy of the 
Government's attitude. 

What an institution it is ; and yet how few 
realize its evolution and history, its romance, 
aye, and even its humour ! Some day an 
historian will write the history of the 
King's Speech. Meanwhile, let us glance 
at its far-away interesting beginnings and 
some of the incidents con- 
H nected with it as a British 
institution to the present 

Edward I. was the first 
monarch who may be said 
to have delivered a King's 
Speech, After endeavour- 
ing to do without money 
for his campaigns in Scot- 
land and Flanders, save by 
unconstitutional extortion, 
he appeared before a new 
Parliament in 1297. "The 
tears did stream down his 
face as he declared unto 
them: *My Lords, Knights, 
and Commoners, — The 
realm do stand in 'sore 
need of means to conclude 
this war. 1 have been in 
the wrong in attempting to 
wrest your substance from 
you unwillingly. I, your 
King, confess it. Will 
you, for the honour of 
this our England, give it 
me willingly ? ' ,J And 
(harring the tears) this is 
the sum and substance of 
many other Royal speeches, 



tears did so far as they relate to 

° r| 9®jpy! ni 



In the reign of Edward II L the need of 
continual grants during the war brought 
about the annual assembly of Parliament, 
Usually the Speech was read by the Lord 
Chancellor. But Henry IV. resumed the 
practice, his first Speech being: "Sirs, I 
thank God and you, spiritual and temporal and 
all estates of the land ; and do affirm to wit, 
it is not my will that any man think that by 
way of conquest I would disinherit any of his 
heritage, franchises, or other rights that he 
ought to have, nor put him 
out of the good that he has, 
and has had, by the good 
laws and customs of this 
realm," But even Henry 
IV. came not to be taken 
seriously, and the fact that 
he read the usual Speech 
from the throne led to the 
satire, which we see en- 
shrined in the accompany- 
ing illumination* that the 
Speech itself was compiled 
by the Court jester \ " For 
as the Royal words swell 
out bravely, and mean little, 
none should take them 
gravely or otherwise than as 
considering the source from 
whence they do come." 

In Henry VIlI.'s day 
there were many murmurs 
that His Majesty did not condescend to 
address them oftener in person, but rather 
through the Lord Chancellor, Cromwell. 
u Tell them," quoth the monarch, " that 1 
hearken patiently to the Lord Chancellor 
read the Royal Speech and at the close of 
it say Amen, which is all I expect anv of 
them to do." Of "Bluff King Hal/' as 
Theodore Hook once said, he could not 
publicly boast that " my foreign and domestic 
rt /at tans continue friendly,' 1 Nor was his 
daughter Elizabeth much more inclined to 
address the House by her own mouth. 
"Why," said she to Sir Nicholas Bacon, 
11 should I shout at a parcel of men like a 
town-crier?" So the Lord Chancellor read 
the Speech. "After throwing himself on 
the courtesy of the House, he was directed 
by Her Majesty to explain the causes for 
which they were assembled/* Even in that 
reign we begin to hear complaints, now 
so common, of the omissions from the 
Speech- In 1571 the succession, the ex* 
co m m u n i ca t ion t the Q u een 's ma r r iage — 
the subjects which really occupied men's 
minds — were passed over in silence, which, 




as we shall see later from the lips of Lord 
Randolph Churchill, was a kind of perfection 
to be aimed at by Ministers, 

There were some short, angry Speeches 
from the Throne in King James I.'s day. 
One of the shortest King's Speeches on 
record once came from the Royal lips, 
" Gentlemen, you are here and I am here. 
I want subsidies to carry on the kingdom, 
and you want me to have subsidies or else 
you are traitors, I am here to govern 
according to the common 
weal, not according to the 
will of the Commons. Fare 
you well" 

After the time of James 
II. the vote of Supply 
became an annual one and 
the system of the Cabinet, 
as we know it, became fixed. 
A broadside of the time 
(believed to be the work 
of Defoe) thus travesties 
"Dutch William's" Speech 
from the Throne : — 

"Mein Lords und 
Shentlemens, — It is goot 
for us to assemblage 
togeder in order dat de 
plessings of Gott should 
rest In your hearts and 
de hands of mein Ben- 
tinck and mein Schomberg 
should rest in your pockets." 

All testimony goes to show that King 
William spoke with a strong Dutch accent, 
but it may be doubted if the foregoing were 
not libellously exaggerated* 

We may pass over the story of the King's 
Speech when it was chiefly composed by 
Walpole and Pelham, The first two Georges 
knew so little English and the Crown kept 
so much in the background that the Speech, 
from always being delivered by the Lord 
Chancel lor, lost its hold on the imaginations 
of the people. But all this was changed 
when George II L ascended the throne. 
"Farmer" George was an Englishman and he 
could speak the King's English faultlessly. 
He resolved that the time had come when he 
should have a hand in the composition of the 
Speech he was to deliver. Parliament duly 
met in November, 1760. Forty-eight hours 
before Newcastle and the Lord Chancellor, 
having sat up for two nights composing the 
King's Speech, placed it in the Royal hands. 
George, in his turn* sat up all one night 
editing that Speech. After punctiliously 
aiwing^g^^l^ftBa dotting its U H* he 


1 64 


inserted a famous passage, of which the 
following is a facsimile. He duly delivered 
it, on which occasion a King's Speech, 
it was said, " was delivered for the first time 
with a purely English pronunciation, while 
the grace and dignity of the King's bearing 
were universally praised." Never, too, did a 
Speech from the Throne become so famous. 
The Cabinet was shocked and angry. " Some 
notice," wrote Newcastle to Hardwicke, the 
Lord Chancellor, "must be taken of these 
Royal words, both in the Motion and the 
Address. I suppose you will think ' Briton ' re- 
markable." And in those violent anti-Scottish 
days " Briton " was remarkable. Others 
besides Wilkes loathed the word — Wilkes 
who set up the famous " anti-Briton " news- 
paper. And everybody up to our own day 

hand, also making grateful allusion to the 
word " Briton," which the King never wrote, 
and adding, " And we offer to your Majesty 
the full tribute of our hearts for the warm 
expressions of your truly Royal and tender 
affection towards your people." 

•The prolixity of both the Speech and the 
Address attracted so much attention that the 
King said to Lord Bute the following Session, 
" We must shorten it, my lord." " But," said 
Bute, "I have prepared the Speech already 
for your approval." George asked to see it, 
read it carefully, and drew his pen through 
three-quarters of the four folio sheets. 
"There, Bute," said he, "I think that is 
enough for this time. We will deliver the 
rest of it in a fortnight." True enough, 
sixteen days later Parliament was prorogued 



believed that the King had actually written 
the word " Briton," when, as will be observed, 
what he actually penned was " Britain," then 
quite a different word altogether. For a time 
it was a question whether the King would be 
allowed to meddle with the King's Speech, 
or swallow it whole as the Ministers directed. 
"This method of proceeding," wrote the 
Prime Minister to another member of the 
Cabinet, " cannot last ; though we must 
now, I suppose, submit." Nevertheless, the 
King's first Speech evoked much absurd 
adulation in Parliament. 

"We are penetrated," said the Lords, 
"with the condescending and endearing 
manner in which your Majesty has expressed 
your satisfaction in having received your 
birth and education amongst us. What a 
lustre doth it cast upon the name of Briton 
when you, Sir, are pleased to esteem it 
amongst your glories ! " 

Nor were the Commons a whit behind- 

and the remainder of the King's Speech 
delivered. When someone wondered at His 
Majesty hardly glancing at the paper he held 
in his hand, George remarked, " I have had 
it in my pocket a month." In November 
George had another Speech to make to his 
first Parliament, in which he referred to his 
"marriage with a Princess eminently dis- 
tinguished by every virtue and amiable 

But George had made up his mind that 
thereafter he would write the Speech himself, 
with the advice, of course, of his Ministers. 
When he had to speak of the " bloody and 
expensive war" in which he was engaged, 
Chatham indignantly demanded the words 
" but just and necessary " to be inserted, and 
they were inserted. But when Chatham was 
replaced by Bute, and a further allusion to 
Chatham's war had to be made, "just and 
necessary" was this time omitted, and the 
Great Commoner wa^ furious. " Bloody and 




expensive, was it ? " he cried. " It will be that 
for my Lord Bute by the time he has finished 
with the people of England." 

A Session or two later the King in his 
Speech announced the conclusion of peace 
in terms which still further angered Pitt and 
his friends. Then came the famous No. 45 
of the North Briton. In it Wilkes pronounced 
the King's Speech to be "the most aban- 
doned instance of Ministerial effrontery ever 
attempted to be imposed upon mankind." 
He wondered that the King could ever be 
brought to give the sanction of his sacred 
name to the most odious measures, and to 
the most unjustifiable public declarations. 
Somebody asked Wilkes, when a warrant 
for his arrest was out, how he dared write 
such stuff. " Oh," was the reply, " I wanted 
to see how far the liberty of the Press would 
carry me." 

One of the best stories in connection with 
the Speech, and perhaps the least dignified, is 
told of George IV. when Prince Regent. 
That Prince, as we know, took his respon- 
sibilities lightly, and on one occasion is said 
to have bet Sheridan a hundred guineas that, 
either owing to the magnetism of his 
personality or the flutter in which the 
occupants of the Lords' Chamber was in, so 
little attention was really paid to the verbal 
character of the Speech he was delivering 
that he could make any interpolation he 
liked, undetected. The bet was taken, and 
the Prince Regent agreed to introduce the 
words, " Baa, baa, black sheep," in the 
middle of the Speech. " If anybody 
smiles or looks startled, I lose my bet." 
This daring and ridiculous exploit actually 
came off, and at the close of a weighty 
allusion, composed by Lord Liverpool, 
to Wellesley's difficulties in Spain, the 
Regent cleared his throat, said, " Baa, baa, 
black sheep" hurriedly, and went on, with- 
out apparently exciting any remark. Sheridan 
related the Royal audacity to Canning. " It 
is perfectly amazing to me," he said, M that no 
notice was taken. Didn't you hear him dis- 
tinctly say, * Baa, baa, black sheep ' ? " "I 
did," rejoined Canning ; " but as His Royal 
Highness looked you full in the face at the 
time I took it as a personal allusion, and my 
delicacy forbade me to think more about it." 
"There was a time," said George IV., 
" when I never would have lost an oppor- 
tunity of delivering a speech in Parliament 
to Parliament, but now I am too husky, and 
the glamour of the thing is gone for me." 
He told Croker that he used to envy Fox 
and Sheridan their oratorical triumphs. " I 

believe I, too, was cut out by Nature "for an 
orator ; my voice carried ; and, although I 
should have held the paper in my hand, I 
should never have looked at it or let it be 
seen that I was delivering by rote." So he 
allowed Parliament to be opened and pro- 
rogued by commission for many Sessions. 
There is a story of Barnes, editor of the Times, 
getting possession of a copy of the King's 
Speech, and, having read it, sending off a 
messenger post-haste to Lord Melbourne. 
"My lord, everything but one is there, 
including the omissions of political import. 
But I warn your lordship that that omission 
(not of political import) should be repaired 
without delay ; otherwise, I warn you, I shall 
insert it myself in to-morrow's Times and the 
Ministry must take the consequence." 

On the bottom of the proof the editor had 
added, " And may the blessing of Almighty 
God rest upon your labours." The Minister 
took the hint and the addition was made. 

When Brougham wrote the greater part of 
King William's Speech it was very stilted and 
rhetorical and utterly out of keeping with the 
bluff presence and gruff accents of the 
monarch. "It is comical," wrote Greville 
in his Diary for 1834, "to compare the 
language of the very silly old gentleman who 
wears the crown, in his convivial moments 
and in the openness of his heart, with that 
which his Ministers cram into his mouth, 
each sentence being uttered with equal energy 
and apparent sincerity." 

A year later all England rang with laughter 
over a parody of the King's Speech which 
appeared in the Times, in revenge, it is said, 
for that newspaper's not having been supplied 
with a preliminary draft by the Ministers, In 
this clever skit the inanity of the Speech was 
well hit off, although the exploit nearly ex- 
posed the newspaper to a prosecution : — 
My Lords and Gentlemen, — 

It is with a deep sense of the exertion and labour 
which you have bestowed in the prosecution of your 
pleasures that I at length close this protracted 
Session and release you from attendance. I am fully 
sensible of the application you have given to the 
business of Crockford's, and of the ardent support 
you have afforded to the whist-table at the Travellers', 
as well as to the more important parties at Graham's. 
I rely with entire confidence on your judgment and 
zeal in maintaining the cookery of our excellent 
kitchens according to the established principles 
of Ude. 

I continue to receive most favourable accounts of 
the whitebait dinners at Greenwich and Blackwall, 
and it is with great satisfaction that I have observed 
the two great parties in my Parliament encouraging 
those entertainments so peculiarly national, and 
showing agreement in a matter of taste so important 
to the fisheries^ a I f ram 

I continue to receive from all my neighbours 




assurances that they are my most obedient humble 
servants at command, and it is with sincere pleasure 
that I find myself held by many in high con *i deration. 

As the aulumn advances there is reason lo appre- 
hend that the days will shorten and the leaves will 
fallj but I am not without confident hopes that the 
return of spring will bless us with length of days and 
restore vegetation. 

The Thames continues to run through London, and 
the Monument stands on Fish Street Hill* The 
prospects of the Regent's Park are improved, and my 
people will be partially admitted to the privilege of 
taking the air without swallowing the dust of the 
road : but to guard the sudden privilege of walking 
on the grass from licentiousness will be the anxious 
object of my Government, 

The insanity of the dogs during the summer 
solstice has long been a subject to me of the 
profound est grief and concern, and I trust that the 
Committee which has devoted itself lo the prevention 
of drunkenness will discover a method of removing 
the prejudice or delusion of my faithful dogs and 
reconcile them to water* 

I have seen with a just „ 

indignation the racing of 
omnibuses, with which 
hundreds of my faithful 
subjects are pulverized, so 
that not even their names 
are left behind therm 
Persons living and well 
one instant are run down, 
ground to powder, and 
nying in dusE the next 
moment. These horrors 
are not unknown nor un- 
depltired by me, and your 
attention will naturally be 
directed, early in the next 
Session, lo the adoption 
of some plan by which all 
my subjects will be en- 
abled to ride in their own 

Gentlemen ok the 
House of Commons, — 

I thank you for your 
supplies, More money 
and less need of it is the 
anxious wish of my heart, 
and be assured that what- 
ever you grant is well laid 
out, and that the promsest 
expenditure of which cir- 
cumstances will permit is 
the wisest economy. The 
same course of fragility 
which has been proposed 
in my speeches and those 
of my predecessors for the 

last fifty years will I* steadily pursued, but while it 
is pursued it is nut in the nature of things that it 
should t>e possessed and my people must consequently 
be satisfied with the pleasure of the chase. 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 

It gives me great satisfaction to believe that in 
returning to your several counties you will find all at 
home well, and I rely wilh confidence on your selling 
a pretty example. 

There are few stories in history more 
charming than that of the accession of the 


R-ta Wb Another Bolli* of Fins Old 

tenniel's cartoon on the queen's speech, 1857. 

W<prvdn*«t bv rpccinl perttdm^n of the Proprietors of *" Punch") 

young Queen Victoria, and especially of her 
taking the draft of her first Queen's Speech 
with her to the privacy of her chamber and 
there reading it aloud gravely to her favourite 
spaniel, of her going to Melbourne about 
certain passages and retiring again to make 
herself mistress of it, saying to her mother, 
" I hope, mamma, they will be very still and 
they will all hear me; ; On July 17th she 
went in State to dissolve Parliament. 

" As she entered the House," we are told, 
" all the peers and peeresses present rose at 
the flourish of trumpets and remained stand- 
ing. When she had ascended the throne 
Lord Melbourne, who stood close to her 
right hand, whispered to her that it was 
customary to desire the peers and peeresses 
to be seated Whereupon Her Majesty, in 

rather a low voice, and 
bow i ng condescend- 
ingly, said, 'My lords, 
be seated.' " 

The Queen read the 
S peech deli berate 1 y , 
and with a sweet voice 
which was heard all 
over the House, while 
a natural grace and 
modest self-possession 
characterized her 
demeanour. Fanny 
Kemble, who was pre- 
sent on this historic 
occasion, thus wrote 
concerning its central 
figure : M The Queen 
was not handsome, 
but very pretty, and 
the singularity of her 
great position lent a 
sentimental and 
poetical charm to her 
youthful face and 
figure. The serene, 
serious sweetness of 
her candid brow and 
clear, soft eyes gave 
dignity to the girlish 
countenance ; while 
the want of height only added to the effect of 
extreme youth of the round hut slender person 
and gracefully moulded hands and arms, The 
Queen's voice was e\quisite, nor have I heard 
any spoken words more musical in their gentle 
distinctness than 4 My I^ords and Gentlemen/ 
which broke the breathless silence of the 
illustrous assembly, whose gaze was riveted 
on that fair flower of Royalty, The enuncia- 
tion was as jilrf^tlB'aklrQtft intonation was 



mn//s ^yt^^L. «4*(f~~^o' 


melodious, and I think it is impossible to 
hear a more excellent utterance than that of 
the Queen's English by the English Queen. 1 ' 
Many anecdotes cluster about the Speech 
from the Throne in Victoria's long reign. It 
was in her third Session that a gentleman 
named Williamson accosted a member who 
had just left the Chamber. " Has the Queen 
spoken ? " " Yes ; Her Majesty is now dis- 
robing." "Did she mention the Pope?" 

No ; not a word about the Pope." " Good 
God ! " cried the 

stranger; "then 

1 am undone ! " 
and he fell back, 
his head striking 
heavily on the 
pavement He 
died soon after, 
but the mystery 
was never cleared 
up of why he 
expected a refer- 
ence to the Pope 
in the Queen's 
Speech. He was 
probably insane. 

Once the 
Queen received 
a bound volume 
of orations from 
a provincial poli- 
tician, dedicated 
"to Her Majesty, 
whose exquisite 

delivery and felicity of bearing on the occasion 
of the Speech from the Throne entitled Her 
Majesty to be ranked amongst the world's 
orators." The Queen laughed, and told 
Sir Arthur Helps : " I am always amused 
when they tell me Pm an orator. And yet 
sometimes I am tempted to think I could 
6ay something far better than what my 
Ministers put down for me to say." 

Yet the Queen took a considerable part in 
the composition, or at least the editing, of 
the Speech. In 1865 we find her writing : 
14 It strikes Her Majesty as strange that Lord 
Russell should declare himself to have been 
jio party to the draft agreed on at the Cabinet 
on Saturday, and still more so that, claiming 
ft right in consequence to suggest a new 
draft, he should not only send one, adopting 
the very language to which the Cabinet had 
positively objected both on Saturday and 
Monday, but that he should ask to have Her 
Majesty's consent communicated by telegraph. " 


- s. ^1 r. - 



Lord Russell called this "the slowest 
Speech " on record, as they had spent weeks 
over it in Downing Street, and still could 
not agree. Then came a letter from Queen 
Victoria herself to Granville : — 

" The Queen asks the Cabinet to be firm 
and support her. Lord Russell is very fair, 
but Lord Palmerston alarms him and over- 
rules him. The Cabinet must also insist 
on no violent declaration in the Speech 
which would force us to be violent 

partisans on one 
side, or of a 
determination to 
maintain the 
Treaty at all 
hazards." This 
was a reference 
to Napoleon 
III.'s apparent 
designs on Italy. 
Lord Ran- 
dolph Churchill, 
meeting a poli- 
tical opponent, 
remarked, plea- 
santly : — 

"Well, how do 
you think the 
Speech went?" 
" Nothing in 

" Nothing in 

it ? Why, my 

dear sir, that's 

Do you know that we spent 

hours eliminating anything 

or significance? We were 

last moment that some- 

/^tr^H^ ^^2^ 


by Google 

its triumph. 

fifteen , solid 

of any value 

afraid up to the 

thing had crept in. Thank goodness, you 

reassure me." 

Lord Randolph was probably rather sore 
on this point. In 1885 he had almost come 
to loggerheads with his staid old fellow- 
members of the Salisbury Cabinet, when the 
outlines of the Queen's Speech were con- 
sidered. He was most anxious to assign a 
foremost place to the reform of Parlia- 
mentary procedure. He harangued them ; 
the Cabinet was tired and disposed to 
be irritable. " Randy " left them in high 
dudgeon, and although he blustered the 
Speech was spoken without any reference to 
his pet project. 

At the time these lines appear the King's 
Speech will have been prepared for the new 
Parliament — what will it be like this year? 

Original from 

I'rtftna i*lwU^i m a^hb]f ^iJV"tf, *Vew I'pHt.. 



r is written in the Book of St. 
Kavin, "The eye for science 
tht: mouth for religion, and 
the hand for art." As the eye 
is the index of perception, 
and the mouth the symbol of 
desire, so the hand reveals the personality. 
In no other way is the supremacy of man so 
clearly shown as in the possession of hands. 
To the student of personality the hand is 
one of the; most interesting and instructive 
features. The hand is sensitive in its 
response to emotion and expressive and 
typical of character Not only does the 
hand betray its calling and occupation, it 
also bears unmistakably the impress of the 
personality behind it. The hand of the 
actor may sometimes be half his fortune. 

Too many actors, like artists, neglect this 
expressive member of the human organism. 
They give it very little attention and a 
subordinate place in their pictures, to the 
detriment of their artistic work. Actors and 
portrait painters should pay more attention 
to hands, for the difference is as great 
between the hands of two persons as between 
their faces. Ask ML Bertillon. 

The character of an individual, which can 
be read so plainly from his face, is revealed 

almost as clearly in the hand. While the 
function of expression centres supremely in 
the face t yet in a multitude of ways its 
message is supplemented by the action of 
the hands, By representing the hands 
disposed in conformity with the attitude of 
the figures the Old Masters were able to 
express every different kind of sentiment 
in their compositions, 

11 There has never been conceived or 
made by man any instrument, machine, or 
contrivance capable of such a diversity of 
usefulness as the human hand/' says David 
Belasco, the great psychologist of the drama 
and master of stage effects. M Nothing has 
ever existed with such infinite adaptability to 
various needs, or capable of being trained to 
such degrees of dexterity and versatility," 

Mr, Belasco told of visits he had paid to 
hospitals and climes, watching painful opera- 
tions that he might catch the reflective feeling 
of agony and pain as expressed in the hand ; 
of visits to insane asylums, where he studied 
the hand of the unharnessed minds, which, he 
said, was "like a spirited horse in the hands 
of a frightened and inexperienced driver." 
He told of studying the hands of prisoners 
being tried for murder, noting how the hands 
gripped the arms of the witness chair. Then 




Note how the hands cany out the ejtpre.s-.ijn of calculating 


From a Ptotocrojj/k b? F. W, fiurford. 

he witnessed the passing of the life-spark 
from the hands of a murderer in the electric 
chair Lastly, he visited a maternity hospital 
and observed with the physicians how at the 
moment a child is born, and before it has 
given the first cry or taken air into the lungs, 
the fingers extend with a quick, spasmodic 
jerk, stand perfectly straight and rigid, and, 
following this involuntary motion of the 
hands, the lungs take in air, 
and a cry- escapes from the lips. 
4i Life has begun. Shortly after, 
the child feels hunger, and the 
hand goes at once to the mouth. 
The brain is acting, and direct- 
ing her servant, the hand, which 
seeks to carry food to the 
mouth, the proper place to 
receive it Thus from the first 
moment of life the hand takes 
its place as the servant of the 

"The hand ! What a wonder- 
ful pan of the human mechan- 
ism it is, and what a power of 
expression lies within it ! n con- 
tinued Mr. Belasco. " In happi- 
ness or sorrow, the hand finds 
its own expression of it, In 
greeting or cares . in scorn 01 
menace, in appeal, fear, su r prise j 

love t loathing, pride, shame, remorse, resigna- 
tion, contentment— in almost any emotion or 
feeling of the human mind, the hand is a 
most important factor in expression, 

"The hand whose owner has little or 
nothing to conceal opens itself freely to the 
gaze, but the hand of one whose deeds and 
thoughts will not bear inspection wishes to 
hide itself, or to close the fingers over the 
palm, studiously concealing it from sight 
The mind feels the necessity for hiding 
its workings, and the fingers, obeying the 
suggestion close over the palm. Such hands 
belong to a deceitful, hypocritical, untruthful 
person. The self-contained, cautious, trust- 
worthy man, one in whom you can confide, 
holds his hands at the side with the fingers 
partially closed, and while the hand shows 
life, and does not hang limp and loggyi 
nevertheless it is not wide open. Hands 
carried at the side, the fingers nearly open 
and the hand dangling in a limp and lifeless 
manner, give the impression that the hand is 
thai of indecision; the mind is lacking in 
definiteness of purpose, and the owner of the 
hands, being mentally lazy, will not take the 


The left hand expJM*aJSmliffi 

Frvm a pfofcvroM bv Fntk, A'tv JVrfc 





trouble to think for himself- Then there is 
the open-handed person, of whom it is said : 
*A fool and his money are soon parted.' 
These undecided hands, in coming towards 
you, tell you that you may easily impress 
their owner. Now take the hands hanging 
at the sides, but with the fists firmly closed, 
This does not necessarily indicate the 
bruiser or the bully, for it may indicate 
one who is labouring under great deter- 
mination. The very act of clenching 



Note how the hand indicHies the epitome of Devilry, 

Mt0pn + a Ph&foffrapM hx BiFtfm* JVew Tart; 

the fist indicates plainly that the mind is 
made up — the determination fixed. It 
portrays very strong resolution, 

M There is the person who seems to find no 
place for his hands to rest. He carries them 
first up t then down, then in the pocket, then 
fingering the watch-chain* This person is 
uncertain in purpose. Emotions are passing 
rapidly through him, and these emotions are 
not under the control either of mind or will 
Again , we meet with the person who holds 
the hands in front of the body, or slightly at 
the side, waving them about as though trying 
to keep from touching anything. If an object 
should be brought close to these hands they 
would instinctively shrink away from it and 

avoid contact. It is as if 
the ends of the fingers 
contained eyes which were 
roaming from one place 
to the other* This person 
is suspicious, is * siting 
up* everything about him, 
making mental notes of the appearance of 
the settings of the room, being on the 
look out for trap- doors and concealed things. 
This action of the mind, showing watchful- 
ness, alertness, and investiga- 
tion, is reflected in the hands, 
which roam around, evidently 
searching for information* 

*'The person who crosses 
the room with the fingers toy- 
ing with a handkerchief, a 
button on the clothes, the 
watch-chain, or some other 
trinket is plainly nervous and 
momentarily under excite- 
ment The bullying person 
has his fists tightly clenched 
and his elbows bent, with his 
arms carried in i bow-legged J 
fashion. This is typical of a 
bruiser and fighter The 
person who rubs the hands 
together, as if washing them, 
is hypocritical, adroit, and 
untruthful. This person is 
slippery, like Uriah Heap, 
Then we have the man with 
i he investigating air, with 
hands clasped behind his 
back. He is extremely cau- 
tious, looking over the ground 
before he 'shows his hand/ 

"I always try to impress 
upon the members of my 
companies the importance of 
studying the characteristics 
of hands and of using their hands as well as 
their voices in acting," continued Mr. Belasco. 
"In studying hands, learn to distinguish a 
hand that is full of life, is springy and elastic 
in its outward look, telling you, even before 
you have touched it, of the vital energy stored 
in its owner." In closing his remarks con- 
cerning the hand, which he holds as one of 
the principal assets of 
the good actor and 
actress, Mr. Belasco 
said : — 

" Every pair of hands 
has eyes wjtf^j^elffani* 3J 


pity, mayoe, tor their perplexity. 



owners, and they have mouths, and 
beseech you to hear their story," 

In fine acting the body is as instinct 
with movement in those passive 
phases when the actor is listening as 
in the active moments of speaking. 
The ordinary actor or actress is not 
a good listener. Instead of appearing laughter. 
to take in every word of the speaker, 
and to be affected by it, he or she is simply 
waiting for his or her turn to speak. 

"The actor is not a walking semaphore," 
says that admirable character -actor, J, E. 
Dodson, whom Ellen Terry calls "The 
British Coquelin." M His body should be 
an instrument capable of 
infinite expression, and 
the purpose of his action 
should be to interpret, 
not only the shades of 
his own moods and 
thoughts, but also the 
explanation- melody and rhythm of the 

poetry of the whole piece," 
When he played the part of Richelieu Mr. 
Dodson put those words into practice. His 
hands were ever at work, portraying the 
■cunning and craftiness of the old Cardinal, 
The tension of his hands showed the 
tremendous strength of the 
■character, reflecting the power- 
ful mind behind them. See the 
ciervous tension of the right 
hand as he half holds himself 
-down and half raises himself 
up in his seat, and the deter- 
mination expressed in the left 
hand — that di ree- 
fed by the heart. 
George A Hiss, 
who is, perhaps, 
the best character- 
actor on the Eng- 
lish-speaking stage 
to-day, an English 
actor of the Eng- 
lish school, uses 
•his hands more 
^effectively than 
any actor since 
Irving. Mr. 
Arliss's hands 
■only speak when 
spoken to, and 

then with wonderful effectiveness. Never did 
hands act as did Arliss's wonderfully expressive 
ones in the play of "The Devil" In many 
instances the lines of the Devil, played by 
Air. Arliss, were spoken by his hands, his lips 


remainirfg sealed. They hold one 
spellbound. Every thought that is 
flashing through the mind of Arliss, 
as the Devil, is anticipated and 
expressed to the audience hy his 

Speaking of the hand of the actor, 
Mr. Arliss said recently: — 

"There is no end to the possibilities 
of the expression of emotion with the hand. 
Whether in motion or limp, the hand tells its 
story. It is difficult, indeed, to express any 
great emotion without the assistance of the 
hands. If the brain or the heart is active 
so are the hands. The flexibility of the 
hand shows the degree 
of flexibility of the mind 
and nature, and the 
readiness with which "the 
mind has power to un- 
fold itself, and * see 
around the corner ' of 

11 The hand and the 
eye work together. The moment the eye 
catches sight of anything the hand is ready to 
reach out for it — this is especially noticeable 
in the case of pickpockets and shoplifters ! 
"The person who cannot look you in the 

eye usually fingers 
with his mouth. 
The mouth is the 
most tell -tale 
feature of the 
human anatomy, 
and the person 
who is weak and 
distrustful cannot 
keep his hands 
a nay from it. You 
see, the hands, 
the agents of the 
brain, ■ put their 
fingers into it.' I 
played such a 
part with Mrs, 
Fiske in * Leah 
Kleschna J a few 
years ago. Raoul 
Burton was one 
of those fellows 
who couldn't look 
you in the eye 
and was always 
Usually it is done 

The un balanced mind of the Lunatic 
Pkutuvrapk bv Baker Art Gaiter*. CUvjmAn& 

fingering with his mouth, 
with the aid of a cigarette, 

"Self-consciousness attacks the" hands so 
savagely someumgs that they actually appear 
to g^^f^AiWEl^Ulm^ to swell and 



turn red and ^perspire. As a 

matter of fact, this growing 

larger is quite possible* When 

the mind concentrates itself 

on one part of the body it 

. ^jk brings the blood to that part, 

H Wk and naturally the veins begin 

' MjKTii."" to swell and the hands seem 

to enlarge. The restless 

hands are usually the helpless ones— useless 

little hands that are incapable of doing or 

making. People who use their hands a great 

deal, whether mechanically or intellectually, 

by manufacturing, writing, or playing, are 

quite unconscious of them and are more 

than willing to let them fall loosely, in 


Hands expressive of supplication 

Frum a Fkotoprttpk. 

relaxation, as if glad when not working to be 
at rest. 

•* A good rule to remember is never to put 
the hands to the face, unless absolutely 
necessary — unless the type of character 
demands it. As a hint to the women of the 
profession, it is not only a betrayal of self- 
consciousness, but it induces wrinkles." 

The hands come more into play in classic 
rdfcs than in other parts. Especially do the 
hands lend their power to 
the actor's spoken word 
in the plays of Shake- 
speare. Robert R. Man- 
tell, the leading exponent 
precision^ of Shakespeare and the 

classic drama in America — in fact* the 
only actor since Booth to restrict himself 
almost entirely to the plays of Shakespeare, 
who, with Edwin Booth's own pro nipt books, 
and having served an apprenticeship under 
that, I might say> greatest of actors, has 
carried on the artistic work of Booth — cer- 
tainly makes his hands do their part in acting, 
Those who have witnessed Mr. Mantril's 
majestic performance oi Richelieu will recall 
how wonderfully he uses his hands. The 
power, the majesty* the keenness, the 
cunning, expressed in Mr, Mantel Y$ eyes 
and mouth in the rSfcs of Richelieu are not 
only reflected in lull in his hands, but the 
thought and the feeling expressed by them 

precedes the 
spoken word and 
the facial expres- 
sion. His hands 
and his eyes and 
his mind and his 
heart all work 
together for the 
of a complete and 
finished character 
portrayal Look 
at his hands in 
the portrait re- 
produced of his 
impersonation of 
Louis XL Could 
anything be more 
expressive of an 
mind ? 

Miss Julia Mar- 
lowe, the fore- 
most actress of 
romantic rSks in 
America, and 
leader in the inter- 
pretation of Shakesperean heroines, who has- 
always been hailed as the actress who acts 
with her eyes, backs up the contention that 
the hand and the eye act together. She 
uses her hands more effectively even than she 
does her eyes. Who will forget those appeal- 
ing hands in " Joan of Arc ,? ? As she knelt 
before the cross with up-stretched hands and 
raised eyes, for a moment not speaking a. 
wofd, Miss Marlowe's hands sent a thrill 
through the audience that vibrated across the 
heartstrings more than any utterance could 
have done. Speaking of this scene, Miss- 
Marlowe said that she felt a "tingling in her 

fingers " that almost madg her^ speech less ! 
11 JtGhP RMCfflfijft Hhands 



effectively, on the whole, than do American 
actors. Novelli first of all, then Duse, Bern- 
hardt* Mme, Le Blanc Maeterlinck, and 
Nazimova, Then come the English, headed 
by the late Sir Henry Irving, We have seen 
how carefully J. E, Dodson and George 
Arliss, both Englishmen, make use of their 
hands ; and now we come to perhaps the 
most gracious actor living — Forbes -Robert- 
son. This splendid and powerful artiste owes 
much to his wonderfully expressive hands 
and to the manner in which he uses them, 
Mr. Forbes-Robertson's Hamlet soliloquized 
throughout the piece with his hands ! The 
hand of his Shylock was the hand of the 

What more pleasing example showing the 
hand of the actor in action than Mr. Forbes- 
Robertsoti's exquisite 
playing of the Passerby 
in "The Passing of the 
Third-Floor Back "? The 
simplicity and the noble- 
ness of the Passer-by was 
strongly reflected in Mr 
Forbes- Robertson's hands 
throughout the play* 

Sir Charles Wyndham, 
in "The Mollusc/' g 
a splendid bit of hand 
acting when, in express- 
ing agitation, though not 
speaking a word with his 
mouth, he kept moving 
the fingers of his right 
hand in and out of the 
palm, rubbing the finger 
tips against his thumb. 

The illustration of 
11 Bellamy the Magnifi- 
cent " on the next page 
is wonderfully suggestive. 
Lord Bellamy, although 
well advanced in years, 
has lost none of the gal Ian- 
try of his youth, and In 
suave sang - fro id and 
almost insinuating charm of manner exercise 
the greatest fascination over members of the 
opposite sex— when Lord Bellamy so wishes 
it Note the almost purring caress suggested 
by Sir Charles Wyndham's right hand as, 
accused by Miss Pamela Gray of paying 
compliments and indulging in meaningless 
flattery, he replies, "One never flatters 

There have been few more illuminating 
examples of the speaking expression— the 
life, almost — with which the hands can be 



imbued than is pro- 
vided by the study 
of Mr. H. B. Irv^ 
i rig's hands in the 
part of Mathias in 
"The Bells." Even 
the most inexperi- 
enced t heatre-goer 

cannot fail to recognize the feeling of dread 
the actor's hands so clearly portray when the 
sound of the sleigh-bells of a stranger whom 
he murdered in the past reaches his ears, 

"It is far from easy to discuss the import- 
ance the hands play in any part," says Mr. 
H. B. Irving, "for, truth to tell, the hands, 
after all, merely follow out the dictates of 
the brain. By this I mean to say that, 
obviously, every movement of the hands iq 



Hands lhat speak Tor the motives. 

governed by the brain, and on this account 
a great deal must depend on the individual 
reading of a part- For instance, there can 
be little doubt that 
half-a-dozen actors, 
if left to themselves 
to study any par- 
ticular part, will 
read that part in 

entw^ER^VW N 
explain exactly 





An insinuating chnrin uf manner. 
From a J'hvto-Jritpk ftp Fuu fatal in it Bavltrht. 

what I mean. We will take, for the sake of 
example, this sentence: 'So-and-so merely 
behaves just as a warm hearted man would 
behave on suddenly receiving the news of a 
dear friend's" death/ 
"So far so good. 
The word s, regarded 
superficially, need 
no explanation. In 
cold, hard print they 
speak for them- 
selves, and indeed 
clearly portray, to 
anyone with the 
least imagination, 
the picturu the ele- 
mentary details of 
which are unmis- 
takably outlined. 
Yes, this must be 
obvious when 
merely reading the 
words. But to the 
actor an entirely 
different picture is 
conveyed by these 
words. He asks 
himsi-lf the ques- 
tion, ' What warm- 

hearted man ? J Fifty differ- 
ent men would behave in a 
hundred different ways on 
such an occasion — would 
express their emotions with 
different looks and gestures. 
The actor" has to select. It 
is his duty to express the 
type which he considers will 
strike the audience as the 
most natural. His expres- 
sions must be those which, 
while they belong to the 
recognized symbols of our 
common nature, have also 
the peculiar individual im- 
press of the character repre- 
sented. To all who will 
reflect for a moment it must 
be clear that men and 
women use their hands in 
a greater and lesser degree 
according to the force with 
which any particular emo- 
tion tears at their hearts. 
That is the actor's difficulty 
so far as his hands are con- 
cerned, for it is very largely 
by the use of his hands that 
actually — although they 
probably do not know it themselves — 
the most lasting impression of the truth of 
a reading of any particular character is im- 
pressed upon an audience's mind. And 

H. B + IRVIN't; AS "MAI Hi AH 

iWMfflHSiAW LtotjAlst the fingers so clearly 

Nuie the fear cvprc&scd in hnth ha nth P that fear which 



probably, as the highest art lies in the con- 
cealing of that art, the actor who most clearly 
realises the real innermost meaning of the 
words of the author which he is expressing 
will use his hands to the best advantage. 
The hands of the actor can be used in what 
is really nothing more or less than a down- 
right contradiction to the reading of his brain. 
But that is bad arL The hands should 
follow the dictates of the brain ; in fact, 
if the brain clearly grasps the idiosyn- 
crasies of any particular character it may 
almost be taken as a 
hard-and-fast rule that 
the hands will behave 
themselves in a manner 
entirely true to life. On 
the other hand, if the 
brain is groping for the 
author's meaning, the 
hands, too, will grope 
for that expression which 
the author has intended 
to be represented/' 

Few modern actresses 
possess more restraint 
in the use of their hands 
than Miss Irene Van- 
brugh. In one scene 
in "The Thief, 1 * for 
example, the student of 
the drama with an eye 
for detail may perhaps 
have noticed that, when 
accused of theft by her 
and, Miss Van- 
brugh, while listening to 
the censure meted out 
to her by her horror- 
ken husband, whose 
illusions anent the up- 
rightness of her charac- 
ter are so suddenly dissipated, for over two 
minutes actually makes not the slightest move- 
ment with her hands, the nervous, emotional 
clenching of which so clearly conveys the 
iing of utter dread and horror with which 
she is overcome at her secret being dis- 
covered* Gestures, the slightest movement, 
would have spoilt the picture. Therein lies 
the real art of the true actress, which an 
audience should realize, although actually but 
i do realize, is conveyed to them, not by 
what is being done, but by what is being so 
artistically left undone. 

tv The hands of the actress. How do they 
express what they express? It is a question 
to which, if one loves one's art, such as 
it is — nay, if one lives in one's art, it is 

The bands that expraa in w^mSL 

Frvm <* I'hotQfjrvp/L b* Itover Street Studio*. 

almost impossible to find an adequate 
answer," says Miss Vanbrugh; "for if 
we once understand that naturalness in 
acting means truthful representation of the 
character indicated by the author, and not 
the foisting of commonplace manner on 
the stage, there must he an instant recogni- 
tion of the artistes skill. The hands can only 
behave as they should behave if the artiste is 
giving a really life- like representation of the 
character she is endeavouring to represent. 
A great deal, however, depends on the 
clearness with which the 
author impresses the real 
* life and soul J of the 
character he has drawn 
upon the artiste's mind. 
That is where the great 
author's consummate 
skill excels. Sir Arthur 
Pinero, for example, gives 
to each artiste a living 
character to work upon, 
a thing possessing not 
only mere breath, but a 
thing which also has a 
soul that unburdens its 
characteristics so clearly, 
so vividly, that such un- 
important adjuncts as 
the limbs of the body in 
which it is concealed 
must obey its command. 
Civil war is out of date j 
and it is for that reason 
that the hands of such a 
character truly under- 
stood cannot fail to he- 
have themselves as they" 
would if the situations to 
which they are giving 
birth were occurring in 
real life— and not on the stage. The hands of 
the actor or actress^ it seems to me, depend for 
their * behaviour * every whit as much on the 
skill of the author as on that of the artiste." 

In discussing the title of this article with a 
well-known critic from the point of view of 
every branch of the stage, on referring to 
musical comedy, the critic remarked, some- 
what cynically, "Ah, yes; when we get to 
musical comedy we are generally provided 
with numerous sets of hands which express 
nothing," The use of the word "generally ' 
may be said, perhaps, to justify this assertion, 
for, truth to tell, the musical comedy stage to- 
day is not overburdened with artistes who are 
so thpffly!^^*J| ^tyi^Tpr^f^l^li; Jig!ii|s|tresses of their 
art that they can rely oh their hands to assist 





them to any great extent in expressing the 
true meaning of the words they utter. 

Happily, however, for those who are 
enthusiastic about this particular form of 
entertainment, there are exceptions, one of 
whom is assuredly Miss Gertie Millar, who 
may, by the way* not improbably be seen 
in comedy in the far-from -remote futpre. 
" F think, to a very great extent, experi- 
ence, and experience alone, can teach an 
artiste in musical comedy the true power 
of giving birth to expression with the 
hands*" says Miss Millar, " The great 


HU hands express aiTei;tion + Her hands, affection in th* kit aewt restraint in the right. 
Note the determination ea press* d in the fingers of Miss Mil I ax's light hand. 

JPumi rr i'h-it •.>•,.' rnj'li bu AtaUbaut *£ BanJtelL 

stumbling-block — and more's the pity!— on 
the musicalcouiedy stage lies in the fact that 
very frequently the same stereotyped set of 
actions are taught to artistes from week to 
week, month to month, and year to year. 
The result is that the actor or actress with 
real initiative, the artiste who possesses the 
ability to faithfully create any particular 
character, finds that he or she is not allowed 
to give full play to the imagination. Some- 
times, of course, with artistes of limited 
ability this is an advantage, for wild gesticuh 
lations have the same effect on an audience 

as has the proverbial red rag on the bull. But 
on the whole it is, perhaps, to be regretted that 
greater freedom is not permitted to musical- 
comedy artistes in the creation of their studies* 
Those vvho have reached within measurable 
distance of the top of their profession, of 
course, practically create their own characters 
—in other words, make use of their hands in 
the particular way their brain dictates. But 
lesser known anistes are frequently hampered 
by too many restrictions and stereotyped 

The hands of the actor, from the point of 
view of the dramatist, 
provide a particularly 
interesting study ; for it 
is the dramatist, after 
all, who really, to all 
intents and purposes, 
strives to give to the 
hand of the artiste the 
expressions which 
should follow in the 
train of the situations 
he is creating. 

" I have long been 
strongly of the opinion," 
says Mr. Cecil Raleigh, 
who has written so many 
successful dramas— and 
in drama the hand of 
the actor plays a particu- 
larly important part — 
"that actors and 
actresses, as a class, 
would be far more con- 
vincing and natural with 
their hands on the stage 
if they were to make 
a point of learning 
fencing* The inexperi- 
enced actor, in particu- 
lar, often fails to follow 
the ruling of his brain 
so far as his hand is 
concerned, He uses 
the same mannerisms in play after play in a 
mechanical fashion, which is not only annoy- 
ing but extremely unconvincing, 

u So far as the hands are concerned, from 
the point of view of giving expression, the 
generality of English actors and actresses 
are behind those who have studied in 
Continental schools of acting The hands 
of the really artistic actor should be as 
important to him in the expression of his 
art, in the expression of the emotions he 
would. eQnriif.^s A^itwiiha-Pds of a clock 
to thos 

ar k *W 


P@E ftBTTE' 

l-?r aI. 



gently pushing the swing 
doors of the public bar of 
the King's Head an inch 
apart, applied an eye to the 
aperture, in the hope of dis- 
covering a moneyed friend- His gaze fell on 
the only man in the bar, a greybeard of 
sixty, whose weather-beaten face and rough 
clothing spoke of the sea. With a faint sigh 
he widened the opening and passed through. 
" Morning Ben f " he said, with an attempt 
at cheerfulness* 

11 Have a drop with me," said the other, 
heartily. " Got any money about you ? " 
Mr* Wot ton shook his head and his face fell, 

Vul. xxjtijc.— 23. Copyright, igto, 

clearing somewhat as the other handed him 
his mug. ." Drink it all up, George," he said. 

His friend complied. A more tactful man 
might have taken longer over the job, but 
Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be 
labouring under some strong excitement, took 
no notice. 

" I've had a shock, George," he said, 
regarding the other steadily. "I've heard 
news of my old woman, 7 ' 

"Didn't know you 'ad one," said Mr, 
Wotton, calmly. " Wot's she done ? " 

"She left me/' said Mr, Davis, solemnly — 
"she left me thirty-five years ago. I went 
off to sea one fine morning, and that was the 



"Why, did she bolt?" inquired Mr. 
Wotton, with mild interest. 

"No," said his friend, " but I did. We'd 
been married three years — three long years — 
and I had 'ad enough of it. Awful temper 
she had. The last words I ever heard 'er say 
was: ' Take that!'" 

Mr. Wotton took up the mug and, after 
satisfying himself as to the absence of con- 
tents, put it down again and yawned. 

" I shouldn't worry about it if I was you," 
he remarked. "She's hardly likely to find 
you now. And if she does she won't get 

Mr. Davis gave vent to a contemptuous 
laugh. "Get much ! " he repeated. " It's 
her what's got it. I met a old shipmate of 
mine this morning what I 'adn't seen for ten 
years, and he told me he run acrost 'er only 
a month ago. After she left me " 

" But you said you left her ! " exclaimed 
his listening friend. 

" Same thing," said Mr. Davis, impatiently. 
"After she left me to work myself to death at 
sea, running here and there at the orders of 
a pack o' lazy scuts aft, she went into service 
and stayed in one place for fifteen years. 
Then 'er missis died and left her all 'er 
money. For twenty years, while I've been 
working myself to skin and bone, she's been 
living in comfort and idleness." 

" 'Ard lines," said Mr. Wotton, shaking his 
head. " It don't bear thinking of." 

" Why didn't she advertise for me ? " said 
Mr. Davis, raising his voice. " That's what 
I want to know. Advertisements is cheap 
enough j why didn't she advertise ? I should 
'ave come at once if she'd said anything 
about money." 

Mr. Wotton shook his head again. 
"PVaps she didn't want you," he said, 

"What's that got to do with it?" 
demanded the other. "It was 'er dooty. 
She'd got money, and I ought to have 'ad 
my 'arf of it. Nothing can make up for that 
wasted twenty years — nothing." 

"P'r'aps shell take you back," said Mr. 

"Take me back?" repeated Mr. Davis. 
" O' course she'll take me back. She'll have 
to. There's a law in the land, ain't there ? 
What I'm thinking of is : Can I get back my 
share what I ought to have 'ad for the last 
twenty years ? " 

" Get 'er to take you back first," counselled 
his friend. "Thirty-five years is a long time, 
and p'r'aps she has lost 'er love for you. Was 
you good-looking in those days ? " 

"Yes," snapped Mr. Davis j " I ain't altered 
much. 'Sides, what about her ? " 

" That ain't the question," said the other. 
" She's got a home and money. It don't 
matter about 'er looks ; and, wot's more, she 
ain't bound to keep you. If you take my 
advice, you wont dream of letting her know 
you run away from her. Say you was cast 
away at sea, and when you came back years 
afterwards you couldn't find her." 

Mr. Davis pondered for some time in sulky 

"P'r'aps it would be as well," he said at 
last; " but I sha'n't stand no nonsense, mind." 

" If you like I'll come with you," said Mr. 
Wotton. " I ain't got nothing to do. I could 
tell 'er I was cast away with you if you liked. 
Anything to help a pal." 

Mr. Davis took two inches of soiled clay 
pipe from his pocket and puffed thoughtfully. 

"You can come," he said at last. "If 
you'd only got a copper or two we could 
ride ; it's down Clapham way." 

Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going 
carefully through his pockets shook his head 
and followed his friend outside. 

" I wonder whether she'll be pleased ? " he 
remarked, as they walked slowly along. 
" She might be — women are funny creatures 
— so faithful. I knew one whose husband 
used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after 
he died she was so true to his memory she 
wouldn't marry again." 

Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye 
at the omnibuses passing over London 
Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to 

"Never mind," said Mr. Wotton, as his 
friend uttered an exclamation. "You'll 
have money in your pocket soon." 

Mr. Davis's face brightened. "And a 
watch and chain too," he said. 

"And smoke your cigar of a Sunday," 
said Mr. Wotton, "and have a easy-chair 
and a glass for a friend." 

Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, sud- 
denly remembering his wasted twenty years, 
shook his head grimly over the friendship 
that attached itself to easy-chairs and glasses 
of ale, and said that there was plenty of it 
about. More friendship than glasses of ale 
and easy-chairs, perhaps. 

At Clapham they inquired the way of a 
small boy, and, after following the road 
indicated, retraced their steps, cheered by a 
faint but bloodthirsty hope of meeting him 

A friendly baker put them on the right 
track at last, both gentlemen eyeing the road 



with a mixture of concern and delight. It 
was a road of trim semi-detached villas, each 
with a well-kept front garden and neatly- 
curtained windows. At the gate of a house 
with the word "Blairgowrie" inscribed in 
huge gilt letters on the fanlight Mr. Davis 
paused for a moment uneasily, and then 
walking up the path, followed by Mr. Wotton, 
knocked at the door* 

He retired a step in disorder before the 
apparition of a maid in cap and apron. A 

your missis," said Mr. 

" I want to see 
Davis, fiercely. 

" What for? " demanded the girl. 

"You tell 'er," said Mr. Davis, inserting 
his foot just in time, ** you tell f er that 
there's two gentlemen here what have 
brought 'er news of her husband, and look 
sharp about it," 

"They was cast away with 'im," said Mr. 

"On a desert island," said Mr. Davis. He 


"you tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news 


sharp " Not to-day ! " sounded in his ears and 
the door closed again. He faced his friend 

11 I should give her the sack first thing," 
said Mr Wotton, 

Mr Davis knocked again, and again, 
The maid reappeared, and after surveying 
them through the glass opened the door a 
little way and parley edy VliO 

pushed his way in, followed by his friend, 
and a head that had l>een leaning over the 
banisters was suddenly withdrawn. For a 
moment he stood irresolute in the tiny 
passage, and then, with a husband's bold- 
ness, he entered the front room and threw 
himself into an easy-chair, Mr. Wotton, 
after a scared glance round the well-furnished 

"m#rt wp'StflfcSif extreme edge of 



the most uncomfortable chair he could find 
and coughed nervously. 

"Better not be too sudden with her," he 
whispered. " You don't want her to faint, or 
anything of that sort. Don't let 'er know 
who you are at first ; let her find it out for 

Mr. Davis, who was also suffering from the 
stiff grandeur of his surroundings, nodded. 

"PYaps you'd better start, in case she 
recognizes my voice," he said, slowly. " Pitch 
it in strong about me and 'ow I was always 
wondering what had 'appened to her." 

" You're in luck, that's wot you are," said 
his friend, enviously. " I've only seen furni- 
ture like this in shop windows before. H'sh ! 
Here she comes." 

He started, and both men tried to look at 
their ease as a stiff rustling sounded from the 
stairs. Then the door opened and a tall, 
stoutly-built old lady with white hair swept 
into the room and stood regarding them. 

Mr. Davis, unprepared for the changes 
wrought by thirty-five years, stared at her 
aghast. The black silk dress, the gold watch- 
chain, and huge cameo brooch did not help 
to reassure him. 

" Good — good afternoon, ma'am," said 
Mr. Wotton, in a thin voice. 

The old lady returned the greeting, and, 
crossing to a chair and seating herself in a 
very upright fashion, regarded him calmly. 

" We — we called to see you about a dear 
old pal — friend, I mean," continued Mr. 
Wotton ; " one o' the best. The best." 

"Yes? "said the old lady. 

" He's been missing," said Mr. Wotton, 
watching closely for any symptoms of fainting, 
" for thir-ty-five years. Thir-ty-five years ago 
— very much against his wish — he left 'is 
young and handsome wife to go for a sea 
v'y'ge, and was shipwrecked and cast away 
on a desert island." 

" Yes ? " said the old lady again. 

11 1 was cast away with 'im," said Mr. 
Wotton. " Both of us was cast away with 

He indicated Mr. Davis with his hand, and 
the old lady, after a glance at that gentleman, 
turned to Mr. Wotton again. 

" We was on that island for longer than I 
like to think of," continued Mr. Wotton, who 
had a wholesome dread of dates. u But we 
was rescued at last, and ever since then he 
has been hunting high and low for his wife." 

" It's very interesting," murmured the old 
lady ; " but what has it got to do with me ? " 
Mr. Wotton gasped, and cast a helpless 
glance at his friend. 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

" You ain't heard his name yet," he said, 
impressively. " Wot would you say if I said 
it was — Ben Davis ? " 

" I should say it wasn't true," said the old 
lady, promptly. 

"Not — true?" said Mr. Wotton, catching 
his breath painfully. " Wish I may die '' 

" About the desert island," continued the 
old lady, calmly. " The story that 1 heard 
was that he went off like a cur and left his 
young wife to do the best she could for 
herself. I suppose he's heard since that she 
has come in for a bit of money." 

" Money ! " repeated Mr. • Wotton, in a 
voice that he fondly hoped expressed artless 
surprise. " Money ! " 

" Money," said the old lady ; " and I 
suppose he sent you two gentlemen round to 
see how the land lay." 

She was looking full at Mr. Davis as she 
spoke, and both men began to take a some- 
what sombre view of the situation. 

" You didn't know him, else you wouldn't 
talk like that," said Mr. Wotton. " I don't 
suppose you'd know 'im if you was to see 
him now." 

" I don't suppose I should," said the other. 

" PYaps you'd reckernise his voice ? " said 
Mr. Davis, breaking silence at last. 

Mr. Wotton "held his breath, but the old 
lady merely shook her head thoughtfully. 
" It was a disagreeable voice when his wife 
used to hear it," she said at last. " Always 
fault-finding, when it wasn't swearing." 

Mr. Wotton glanced at his friend, and, 
raising his eyebrows slightly, gave up his 

" Might ha' been faults on both sides," 
said Mr. Davis, gruffly. "You weren't all 
that you should ha' been, you know." 

" Me ? " said his hostess, raising her voice. 

" You," said Mr. Davis, rising. " Don't . 
you know me, Mary ? Why, I knew you the 
moment you come into the room." 

He moved towards her awkwardly, but she 
rose in her turn and drew back. 

" If you touch me I'll scream," she said, 
firmly. " How dare you ? Why, I've never 
seen you before in my life." 

"It's Ben Davis, ma'am; it's 'im, right 
enough," said Mr. Wotton, meekly. 

" Hold your tongue," said the old lady. 

" Look at me ! " commanded Mr. Davis, 
sternly. " Look me straight in the eye." 

" Don't talk nonsense," said the other, 
sharply. " Look you in the eye, indeed ! I 
don't want to look in your eye. What would 
people think ? " 

"Let 'em thir^ | ppgtj- they like," said Mr. 





Davis, recklessly. "This is a nice home- 
coming after being away thirty-five years," 

11 Most of it on a desert island/ 1 put in 
Mr. Wot t on* pathetically* 

" And now I've come back," resumed Mr, 
Davis ; "come back to stop," 

He hung his cap on a vase on the mantel- 
piece that reeled under the shock, and, 
dropping into his chair again, crossed his 
legs and eyed her sternly. Her gaze was 
riveted on his dilapidated boot. She looked 
up and spoke mildly. 

"You're not my husband," she said, 
"You've made a mistake— I thtnk you had 
better go." 

41 Ho \" said Mr. Davis, with a hard laugh. 
"Indeed! And 'ow do you know I'm 
not ? " 

" For the best of reasons," was the reply. 
" Besides, how can you prove that you are ? 
Thirty-five years is a long time*" 

"'Specially on a desert island," said Mr. 
Wot ton, rapidly. "You T d be surprised J ow 
slow the time passes, I was there with 'im, 
and I can lay my hand on my 'eart and assure 
you that that is your husband" 

"Nonsense!" said the old lady, vigor- 
ously. "Rubbish 1" 

u I can prove it," said Mr. Davis, fixing 
her with a glittering eye, rt Do you remember 
the serpent I J ad tattooed on my leg for a 
garter ? " 

"If you don't go at once," said the old 
lady, hastily, " I'll send for the police." 

" You used to admire it," said Mr. Davis, 
reproachfully- " I remember once " 

" If you say another word," said the other, 
in a fierce voice, "HI send straight off for 
the police. You and your serpents! I'll 
tell my husband of you, that's what I'll do." 

" Your what ?" roared Mr. Davis, spring- 
ing to his feet. 

11 My husband. He won't stand any of your 
nonsense, I can tell you. You'd better go 
before he comes in," 

"O-oh," said Mr Davis, taking a long 
breath. " Oh, so you been and got married 
again, 'ave you? That's your love for your 
husband as was cast away while trying to 
earn a living for you. That's why you don't 
want me, is it? We'll see. Ill wait for him." 

"L^EMfMte you ' re u ' u " 8 



about," said the other, with great dignity. 
" I've only been married once," 

Mr. Davis passed the back of his hand 
across his eyes in a dazed fashion and stared 
at her. 

"Is — is somebody passing himself off as 
me ? " he demanded. " 'Cos if he is I'll 'ave 
you both up for bigamy." 

"Certainly not." 

" But— but " 

Mr. Davis turned and looked blankly at 
his friend. Mr. Wotton met his gaze with 
dilated eyes. 

"You say you recognize me as your wife?" 
said the old lady. 

" Certainly," said Mr. Davis, hotly. 

"It's very curious," said the other — "very. 
But are you sure ? Look again." 

Mr. Davis thrust his face close to hers and 
stared hard. She bore his scrutiny without 

" I'm positive certain," said Mr. Davis, 
taking a breath. 

" That's very curious," said the old lady ; 
" but, then, I suppose we are a bit alike. 
You see, Mrs. Davis being away, I'm looking 
after her house for a bit. My name happens 
to be Smith." 

Mr. Davis uttered a sharp exclamation, 
and, falling back a step, stared at her open- 

" We all make mistakes," urged Mr. 
Wotton, after a long silence, "and Ben's 
sight ain't wot it used to be. He strained it 
looking out for a sail when we was on that 
desert " 

"When — when'll she be back?" inquired 
Mr. Davis, finding his voice at last. 

The old lady affected to look puzzled. 
" But I thought you were certain that I was 
your wife?" she said, smoothly. 

" My mistake," said Mr. Davis, ruefully. 
"Thirty-five years is a long time and people 
change a bit ; I have myself. For one thing, 
I must say I didn't expect to find 'er so 

" Stout / " repeated the other, quickly. 

" Not that I mean you're too stout," said 
Mr. Davis, hurriedly — " for people that like 
stoutness, that is. My wife used to 'ave a 
very good figger." 

Mr. Wotton nodded. " He used to rave 
about it on that des " 

" When will she be back ? " inquired Mr. 
Davis, interrupting him. 

Mrs. Smith shook her head. " I can't say," 
she replied, moving towards the door. " When 
she's off holidaying I never know when she'll 
return. Shall I tell her you called ? " 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

"Tell her I certainly" said Mr. Davis, 

with great vehemence. " I'll come in a week's 
time and see if she's back." 

" She might be away for months," said the 
old lady, moving slowly to the passage and 
opening tjie street door. " Good — afternoon." 

She closed the door behind them and 
stood watching them through the glass as 
they passed disconsolately into the street. 
Then she went back into the parlour and, 
standing before the mantelpiece, looked long 
and earnestly into the mirror. 

Mr. Davis returned a week later — alone, 
and, pausing at the gate, glanced in dismay 
at a bill in the window announcing that the 
house was to be sold. He walked up the 
path still looking at it, and being admitted 
by the trim servant was shown into the 
parlour, and stood in a dispirited fashion 
before Mrs. Smith. 

" Not back yet ? " he inquired, gruffly. 

The old lady shook her head. 

" What— what— is that bill for?" demanded 
Mr. Davis, jerking his thumb towards it. 

" She is thinking of selling the house," said 
Mrs. Smith. " I let her know you had been, 
and that is the result. She won't come 
back. You won't see her again." 

"Where is she?" inquired Mr. Davis, 

Mrs. Smith shook her head again. " And 
it would be no use my telling you," she said. 
" What she has got is her own and the law 
won't let you touch a penny of it without her 
consent. You must have treated her badly ; 
why did you leave her ? " 

" Why ? " repeated Mr. Davis. " Why? 
Why, because she hit me over the 'ead with 
a broom-handle." 

Mrs. Smith tossed her head. 

" Fancy you remembering that for thirty- 
five years ! " she said. 

" Fancy forgetting it ! " retorted Mr. Davis. 

"I suppose she had a hot temper," said 
the old lady. 

"'Ot temper?" said the other. "Yes." 
He leaned forward, and holding his chilled 
hands over the fire stood for some time deep 
in thought. 

" I don't know what it is," he said at last, 
" but there's a something about you that 
reminds me of her. It ain't your voice, 'cos 
she had a very nice voice — when she wasn't 
in a temper — and it ain't your face, 
because " 

"Yes?" said Mrs. Smith, sharply. 

" Because it don't remind me of her." 

" And yet the other day you said you 
recognized n\?)rfi5jft§pfroi^d the old lady. 



i S3 


" I thought I did," said Mr. Davis, " One 
thing is , I was expecting to see her* 1 s'pose." 

There was a long silence. 

"Welt* I won't keep you/' said Mrs. Smith 
at last, "and it's no good for you to keep 
coming here to see her- She will never 
come here again, I don't want to hurt your 
feelings, but you don't look over and above 
respectable. Your coat is torn, your trousers 
are patched in a dozen places, and your 
boots are half off your feet— I don't know 
what the servant must think," 

" I— I only came to look for my wife," 
said Mr. Davis, in a startled voice. i( I won't 
come again." 

■' That's right," said the old lady, u That'll 
please her, I know. And if she should 
happen to ask what sort of a living you are 
makings what shall 1 tell her?" 

"Tell her what you said about my clothes, 
ma'am," said Mr. Davis, with his hand on 
the door-knob. "She'll understand then. 
She's known wot it is to be poor herself. 
She'd got a bad temper, but she'd have cut 

Digitized by G( 

her tongue out afore she'd 'ave thrown a poor 
devil's rags in his face. Good afternoon," 

"Good afternoon, Ben/' said the old 
woman, in a changed voice. 

Mr. Davis, half-way through the door, 
started as though he had been shot, and, 
facing about, stood eyeing her in dumb 

" It isn't the same voice and it isn't the 
same face," said the old woman ; " but if I'd 
only got a broom-handle handy " 

Mr. Davis made an odd noise in his throat. 

11 If you hadn't been so down on your 
luck/' said his wife, blinking her eyes rapidly, 
"I'd have let you go. If you hadn't looked 
so miserable I could have stood it. If I 
take you back, are you going to behave 
yourself ? " 

Mr Davis stood gaping at her, 

" If I take you back again/' repeated his 
wife, speaking very slowly, " are you going to 
behave yourself?" 

"Yes," said Mr. Davis, finding his voice at 
last, "Yes, if you are." 
Original from 



The Dark Side of 




BY placing your subject 
between the camera and 
i he light nothing is easier 
than to take photographs in 
silhouette, and 1 have lately 
seen some very in- 
teresting examples of 
photograph e d 
silhouettes taken by 
amateurs. Of course, 



the interest in these may he 

described as chiefly domestic 

ami relying upon our ao [uaint 

ance with the individual thus 

shadowed forth in outline. 


photography is 
licit new ; it has 
been practised 
in all probability 
since impres- 
sions on sensi- 
tized paper were 
first introduced 
in the "'fifties.* 1 I have also seen 
some remarkable daguerreotypes and 
amhrotypes in which the figures are 
taken, probably by mischance, in 
complete shadow. The chief draw- 
back to pictures which by accident, 
or the lack of adroitness on the part 
of the photographer, are made to 
appear in silhouette is that the 
subjects do not stand out in 
perfect profile. 

[lure remains, however, another plan, not 
less ingenious, and vastly more entertaining 
in its results. It consists in collecting profile 
snapshots, or making them for the purpose, 
and converting ihcm into silhouettes by the 
very simple {l^j^^ffjtyjwkemng w ' lrl India 

lnkan tfi^feitTOmteM ound with a 





M. r. ir. THB 


VqL xxxU.— 24, 

JI-M + Til bv ivINCr+ j-t ■ 

*GoOgt< U N ,VEra 9 TY0F f ^HI 5Af f~ 



pair of scissors, A large album 
may, if the collector be indus- 
trious, be filled in this way with 
very fantastic and humorous 
specimens of celebrities in 
silhouette, ranging from the 
King down to a popular singer 
in a London music hall. The 
quantity of material at the dis- 
posal of the collector is enormous, 
because a wide range exists for his 
scissors in the numerous pictures of 
crowded racecourse enclosures, Royal 
garden-parlies, and military functions 
at which numerous persons of cele 
brity are customarily, if not invariably, 
present, These portraits are often 
extremely minute, in which case some 
pains must be exercised. It is 
necessary first to enlarge the por- 
trait and ascertain its boundaries 
carefully before besmirching its 
whole character 

This systematic and deliberate 
contemplation of the dark side of 
famous individualities has its reward 
in infinite humour. Traits which 
are almost imperceptible in the 
tout ensemble become now clearly 
defined. That is one question 
asked about silhouettes. Why is 
it that a mass of sable shadow 
should often be a more convincing 
likeness than a sum of detail and 
facial expression ? The silhouette 
of the Queen of Spain is merely 
the nigrified photograph of Her 
Majesty addressing her tee at golf 
To demonstrate that it is possible 
to secure a silhouette that will 
not baffle recognition because it 
is not in profile, take that of Lord 
Charles Beresford delivering a 
platform speech, or (on the next 
page) that of the Duke of Con- 
naught, who is accompanying his 
relative, the Czar of Russia. Miss 
Terry's silhouette is as easily 
recognizable as her photograph, 
while few who have ever seen 
Mr, Kufus Isaacs would 
be in doubt as to his 
likeness here. One 
would venture to say that 
the silhouette of His Majesty the 
King in a top hat differs a little from 
his photograph, but if the reader will 
carefully blacken a profile photo- 
graph of the King he will see just 

what result will be obtained. There 
have been portraits, for instance, of Mr. 
Balfour which may be said to have 
escaped recognition ; but who could ever 
fail to recognize this? Probably the 
secret is that these black masses 
give the broad essentia rs, the solid 
truth of resemblance, so that we are 
not left to pick our way to recog- 
nition amongst the doubtful 
details, lake the shadow of 
Mr. Kipling or of his fellow- 
novelist, Mr. Rider Haggard; 
they are from snapshots — the 
one at Lord's, the other at his 
home in Norfolk. The next 
shows us Mr* Lloyd George, 
who probably casts the greatest 
shadow now cast in public 
life, but whose physical 
shadow is so much less than 
that of Mr. Gilbert Chester- 
ton. Next comes Mr, 
Asquith, apparently enjoying 
a chat with Mr. Chaplin, 
Further on we encounter the 
dark side of the Countess of 
Warwick, before whom Sir 
W. S* Gilbert is making 

Silhouette photography 
need take no cognizance of 
such things as chairs or 
other furniture, and some 
curious attitudes are fre- 
quently presented* 

It is not necessary to 
comment on all the other 
pictures in this collection 
of stlhouetteograms. Some 
possess a stronger indi- 
viduality thim others, and 
the originals might be readily 

The photographic snapshot 
of Mr. Asquith from which 
our silhouette was made was 
taken at a review at Alder- 
shot, and although the cos- 
tume is unfamiliar, yet it is 
readily recognizable and is 
a very characteristic pose* 
In explanation of the 
silhouette of Sir (korgo 
Lewis it should be said 
that the eminent solicitor 
is in the act of simul- 
mr* balfouil tamsoiwly hailing a cab at 

v'ERSlTf^M^r dtestowiti e 



a farewell in- 
junction upon 
a friend on the 

In conclu- 
sion, one may 
aver that here 
is a brand-new 
pastime for the 
winter even- 
ings, It is not 
given to us all 
to achieve 
silhouettes un- 
aided with a 
pair of scissors, 
as do the deft 
artists who 
make a speci- 
ality of this 
work ; but any- 
one may treat 
a profile photograph to a 
coat of India ink and, after 
carefully cutting away the 
background, mount the result 




in an album to exhibit to bis 
friends as a novelty in portraiture 
coming from his hand, and derive 
much entertainment from their 
guesses at the identity of his 
Subjects. Why not try it? 





I t ueicK t / 

v — ^ ■ h ^-^ 


HEN George Inbolt 
was seen walking 
out with Lizzie Veal, 
rustic critics con- 
sidered the couple 
she be a bit too 

nice, dwun't 

an* a good-livin' young 

11 1 count 
good for he." 

" Kips 'erself so 
she? Prurty, too; 
'ooman — simly." 

"O' course, if Jarge wurn't sich a ram- 
mucky feller, he'd oughter done better in the 
warld than ever he have. Wunnerful high 
education ! " 

George Inbolt was carter up at the Heath 
Farm, and Lizzie was house-parlourmaid at 
Mrs. Parrott's, on the Bel ford Road. Bel ford 
Heath is the tableland between the stretching 
forest and the well-tilled fields. As you drive 
over the moor you come to a fringe of beech 
woods on your left, and behind the trees the 
farm lies low and snug ; then on your right 
stands the homestead where capable, hard- 
working Lizzie made the beds and laid the 
cloth ; and then onward down the hill, for a 
mile and a half, you have on either hand 
cottages, schools, doctor's house, agent's 
house, until you turn into the village street, 
and see, in a burst of comfortable, peaceful 
beauty, the stone bridge, the glittering river, 
the abbey walls and the Abbey House, the old 
Stag Inn, and the crumbling, ivy-clad gate- 
house. Some tourists say that Belford is 
the prettiest village in South Hampshire. 

On the first visit of Lizzie to the farm, she 
wore her servant's apron and a cotton sun- 
bonnet ; and, as she stepped mincingly 
through the muddy yard, George came 
slouching out of the wainhouse and shyly 

asked her what she wanted. She 
explained that she had been sent 
by her mistress to buy some eggs ; 
and the big, shy young man con- 
ducted her to the dairy, and 
introduced her to the guv'nor's 

Next time he saw her it was in 
the roadway, and she drew aside 
to make room for his lumbering horses. 

"Good mornin', miss," said George, the 
colour rising in his bronzed face. " You 
took something more from us the other day 
besides those eggs." 

" Did I, then ? What was that ? " 
"About half my heart. . . . And the other 
half's beatin* fast to follow it. . . ." 

With a sheepish grin and a beetroot blush, 
the carter drove on ; while the girl stood 
showing her white teeth and staring after him. 
He dreamed of her that night ; and next 
day, Sunday, he saw her in her best clothes 
after church service. Her hat was full of 
roses ; her dress was of regal purple ; there 
was white rabbit-fur round her neck ; her 
neat little shoes had square buckles: she 
looked finer of feather than any local birds — 
as grand as one of the ladies from the Abbey 

" In a hurry, miss ? Will you wa'alk so 
far as the heath with me?" 

" I don't mind if I do," said Lizzie. 
At their next meeting she was in her work- 
ing clothes again — a cotton print with rolled- 
up sleeves. He liked her better thus. The 
fine feathers had confused and bewildered 
him. Now he could see the girl herself —the 
live thing that had sent its haunting ghost to 
quicken his puises while he lay asleep after 
the long day's work. 




Her skin was whiter and softer than the 
weather-toned cheeks of the farmer's girls — 
that was because she worked mostly indoors^ 
of course ; but her lips were red and healthy, 
and she was full- bosomed, broad hipped, 
firm-fleshed all over t as an honest, hearty 
wench should be- Her dark hair gave a red 
glow where the sunlight touched it ; her eyes 
were bluish grey, with little dark specks in 
the colour of them — like to the dottings on 
1 blackbird's egg. These appearances he 
noticed, as he would In glancing over the 
points of a new horse brought to his plough \ 
but they were all nothing — less than nothing— 
in the swift building of his strong secret 
thought of her. 

"See here, miss," He had been waiting 

for her outside the dairy. 
"See how I've tied the 
flowers fer you "—and he 
offered her a little nose- 
gay, with a long string 
hanging from it. "I've 
knotted the loose end in 
behind here " — and he 
slapped his broad chest, 
"Take the flowers home 
with you, and so surely 
you 11 be drawing the rest 
of my heart," 

Lizzie laughed, took 
the flowers home, and 
did not worry about the 
damaging tension of any 
invisible string. She en- 
couraged the hand some, 
powerful young man, and 
soon consented to walk 
out with him ; but she 
told him — said it quite 
straight — that their walk- 
ings would never lead 
them through the church- 
door to the nuptial cere- 
mony until he had "put 
by and bettered himself 
sufficient to kip a wife in 

He was a rare worker 
when he chose, Well, he 
had something to work 
for now, someone to save 
for— the good angel who 
should close the door of 
tap - rooms, and check 
his arm from lifting 
the drink-demon's magic 
vase. He was strong 
and hefty enough with 
men — "would tek you up short if you so 
much as looked at un when he might be 
beery or angered"; yet he was naturally 
timid with the other sex, and had, perhaps 
unconsciously, missed many easy successes. 
But this made his love so much the deeper 
when it came. The love was like a river as 
it runs slowly to the sea, where drowning 
men are sucked into unfathomable depths. 

Lizzie took him in hand tightly, and for 
her .sake he stifled the drink-cravings. She 
put before him very clearly the lines on 
which he should advance to fortune: he 
must turn his book knowledge to account, 
scrape together a small capital, buy a cot- 
tage, and establish himself — " same as Mr. 
ThcMfRltf hdJeMI C H IG A N 



"Thomson's old mother left him two 
hundred pounds. That's what started him." 

"And you haven't no one to leave you 
money ? You're an orphan, like me— aren't 
you, George ? Never mind ; you must start 

She told him that she herself had saved a 
matter of twenty pounds, in spite of the fact 
that she spent a tidy bit on hats and gowns 
and gave assistance to her only relative, an 
aunt at Portsmouth. 

"An' you must lift yourself into good 
employment, George. Such a man as you — 
able to write like any clerk, and figure out 
sums and bills — shouldn't be lost in the quag 
at eighteen shillings a week; not at your age." 

She made him narrate his whole career, and 
she dealt severely with him for forfeiting his 
place as woodman on the local lord's estate. 

"Answer me frank, George. Why did his 
lordship turn you off?" 

" Oh, I got a drop of drink in me and had 
a barney with one of the keepers." 

" Yes ; and what brought on the trouble ? 
Some foolishness, I'll war'nt. George, I've 
heard say you'd bin knocking over the cock- 
pheasants with that snogging-stick of yours. 
I hate the sight of it Don't you bring that 
out when you come with me again." 

George looked at his tough ash bludgeon 
sheepishly and ruefully. It was the sort of 
heavy-headed stump that the forest lads cut 
for themselves when they discard the lead- 
weighted squoils with which they have been 
wont to bring down squirrels in their holiday 
huntings. Certainly it was very different 
from the swagger cane that would have been 
appropriate for a saunter in the company of 
a well-dressed young lady. 

" Don't you see, George ? Carrying a thing 
like that puts you all one with any poaching, 
skulking lout from other side of heath — 
and it reminds people of your old foolishness 
when you've long since turned a new leaf." 

After condemnation of his walking-stick 
came reproof for slovenliness of attire. 

" Untidy boy — yes, and so you are. Stoop 
your great head and let me show you how to 
tie a neckercher. There's orphan written all 
over you, George — no one to patch or mend 
for you. But you met clean your leggin's 
yourself. An' you must somehows buy 
another suit for Sundays." 

" 111 break into my money-box if I do." 

" I think you must do it," said Lizzie, 
reflectively. " If you don't sim to respect 
yourself, no one will believe in you. An' 
yer worth dandyin' up — if 'twere on'y to make 
me proud o' you." 

She slid her hand through his arm and 
pressed it against her side. 

" You don't mind how I ta'alk, do you ? 
You know well for why. On'y for this : I'm 
growing fonder and fonder o' you." 

" Are you, Liz ? But your love's not like 
mine. With me, it's all that I am — good or 
bad — right through and through." 

A year passed ; and he had purchased a 
Sunday suit and saved thirty-two shillings. 

"Don't speak foolish, George— it's just 
madness to ask me. VVe can't marry on 
our good looks, can us ? " 

A second year passed, and he had seven 
shillings put by. There had been a relapse 
— while Lizzie was away on a visit to her 
Portsmouth aunt. A regrettable drinking 
bout occurred after the annual pony fair : 
the Stag Inn emptied the money-box. 

"See, George," said the girl, sadly, as they 
strolled side by side down the Belford Road, 
" if you wun't save and can't make, you and 
I are walking to the land o' clouds—nowhere 

" No, I'll never give you up. 'Twould kill 
me to lose hope of you. I'll do — I'll do all 
right yet." 

" George, ma dear, I can't wait for ever. 
Stands to reason, 'tisn't fair to me. My aunt, 
she says so flat" 

" Trust me, Liz — give me a few years J: 

"But I'm givin' you my best time — all 
that us gels bring with them to market," and 
her lips shook and her eyes filled with tears. 
"You mayn't see it, but I'm ageing quick. 
No one won't want me in a little while 

She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and 
then smiled very sadly, as they strolled on 
towards the stone bridge. 

At the end of the third year she said that 
they must part. It was a hot, bright day in 
June ; and she came to him across the fields 
at noontide, spoke a few words about the warm 
weather, asked if he was going to the fair or 
pony sale that afternoon ; and then she told 
him she could keep company with him no 
longer. The miller's foreman, a red-pated 
widower of fifty, wanted her. He had put 
by — ample; his family were growing up; he 
would give her a secure home ; he was well 
preserved. If she took him, who could 
blame her? 

George, in a white fury, implored her to 
wait— to give him one more year, half a year. 

" Six months — you must wait six months, 
and I'll gain money to bring you — ample — 
more than his." 

"I dak^ViRftlMnfi WCsHfe^W, piteously. 



** He must have a wife. Hell take another, 
if not me. . * . George, dear, good-bye." 

It was the universe tumbling into chaos, a 
sudden grey blend of earth and sky, a dark- 
ness in the midst of light, the end of all 
things for him. 

Presently he was in Belford village, leaning 
his arms on the parapet of the bridge, gazing 
down at the tranquilly flowing stream. All 
about him there was noise and confusion. 
The bridge shook beneath heavy traffic ; 
farmers, dealers, tardy droves of ponies 
blocked the street ; women and children in 
wagons and carts laughed shrilly. Behind 
the Stag Inn a concourse of people filled the 
meadows ; tents and stalls, music and round- 
about, swings, cock-shies, invited the frivolous 
and light-hearted. 

It seemed to him 
this afternoon that 
all the world had 
gold — as much as 
they wanted — 
except himself. 
Where ver he turned 
he saw the flash of 
minted gold as it 
passed from hand 
to hand. All his 
neighbours were 
buying freely, stand- 
ing treat, changing 
gold to silver and 
melting it in the 
sunlight. A 
wretched scarecrow 
of a man bought 
a pony for nine 
pounds. A middle- 
aged stranger, a 
thin, haggard man 
on rickety legs, 
hurried to and fro, 
drinking whisky 
from a flask and 
taking gold each 
to talk to anybody. 
George followed 
and watched this 
stranger, idly won- 
dering at the extent 
of his capital Two 
gipsies, over from 
Fordingb ridge way, 
seemed to be his 
lieutenants. These 

swarthy, boozing rascals brought him their 
gold docilely after every sale they effected. 
But the cocoa-nut men and the stall holders 
also gave him their gold. George vaguely 
surmised that he was a sort of illicit banker, 
financier, or money - lender to all these 
itinerant traders. 

He watched the man again, in the noisy 
bar of the hotel, when the pony-selling was 
over. The Fordingbridge dealers were squar- 
ing their accounts with him at a little table 
in a corner of the room. The man was full 
of drink now, and he could scarce find 
stowage for more money. He clumsily 
pouched it, then dragged it out again, 
fumbled with a leather pocket-book and a 
canvas bag, and then began to count his 
treasure to see if he had been cheated. 


O tX»LE IN A c^t^foSIT^C^^fllGAN 



There were paper notes as well as coin — 
there must have been quite a hundred 
pounds on the table at one time. Then he 
pouched it all once more, but so clumsily 
that a sovereign fell from the table. Some- 
one picked it up and gave it to the man. 
It turned George sick to watch. 

He left the bar-room and walked away 
up the road, past all the pleasant cottage 
gardens, the home of Lizzie, the farm, and 
thence up the hill, through the beech woods, 
to the open heath. And all the way, 
plodding along the dusty road, he thought of 
his trouble. 

He sat on the cropped grass between the 
road and the heather, and thought of his love. 
All around him was wide, sunlit space. The 
brown heath stretched for miles ; and beyond 
was a green sea, rolling waves of close woods 
to the faint blue distance of the hills. Across 
the brown and into the green went the white 
road, rising to a narrow crest where it crossed 
the railway, then showing a ribbon-like bend 
of white, then was gone. 

A huge, tearing, dust-rousing motor-car 
swept by, and at once its roar was like the 
humming of a gnat ; it became a black spot 
on a white ribbon, the dust settled again— 
it was gone. 

George Inbolt cursed the flying wheels and 
the rich men they bore. How much would 
a thing like that cost ? Hundreds of pounds 
squandered, to buy oneself a death-dealing, 
murderous rattle-trap ! The cursed cars, 
flitting by night over the forest roads, now 
and then killed a wild pony, and left its 
carcass to tell the tale. Some poor man's 
colt straying on the road, and the life squibbed 
out of it ! 

He plucked at the grass by the roadside, 
and as he lay thus for a long time it was 
as if the devil talked to him. 

A man was coming along the road. George 
sprang to his feet and his heart beat thickly. 
It was old Mr. Rudge, the district collector 
of taxes and rates, going home with his 
pocket full of gold. 

"Good evenin', George. How are you?" 

" I— I am all right, Mr. Rudge." 

"Very warm it's been all day." And Mr. 
Rudge passed on along the crown of the 
road, kicking up the white dust with his 
nailed boots. 

George lay down again on the well-browsed 
grass, and his hands shook, his forehead 
grew wet with perspiration. It was about 
such a man as this that the devil had been 
talking to him. 

He thought now how terrible a thing is 

love— burning and suffocating one, opening 
secret doors inside one, and letting loose 
one's passions, all sorts of passions, rage and 
hate as well as desire : demons bursting out 
of confinement to have a hell-dance in the 
quiet house of life. He thought of how 
thwarted love may drive a man into swift 
crime. He could understand it now. And 
he thought of real crimes done in the neigh- 
bourhood — a thatch fired, an old man knifed 
and hacked. 

How easy it would have been to kill him 
and take his money ! Just beat in his skull — 
a few blows with his stick would do it— and 
he would lie dead, passively yielding his 
gold. Here to his thought the very man 
had come — the man laden with gold — 
offering himself. 

The road was empty now. The wide 
space, the deep silence, had swallowed the 
passing figure. 

One might have done it, and fled ; but 
one would have been pursued and caught. 
It was known that the rate-collector carried 
money. His gold was like manked coin ; it 
would be traced. " Murdered for his money ! 
Let us trace the money and we shall put our 
hands upon the murderer." 

One could have dragged the body from the 
road and hidden it And he thought of dead 
bodies found in the forest— unknown, gnawed 
by foxes, washed by rain — after months, after 
years. But this man was an important 
personage — official. They would search for 
him, hunt for him with bloodhounds. They 
would not rest until they had discovered the 
remains of him. There would have been a 
trail of blood from the road to the hiding- 
place. Besides, the money ! If one used 
his gold it would betray one. As well hang 
oneself and save the law all trouble. Mad 
thoughts ! 

He looked across the heather to the land 
beyond the sea. The Isle of Wight, dim just 
now, showed brightly, astoundingly clear, 
though so far off, lit with strong sunshine 
beneath the sombre mass of clouds — a sign 
of approaching rain. 

Suddenly his thoughts were like the distant 
view- clearer, brighter, flashing beneath dark 
clouds. Or it was as if the devil ceased 
whispering to him, and began to think for him. 

Such a deed could be done safely only if 
many chances favoured one. Working back- 
ward from the dangers, one could see the 
things that would make up safety. 

The man who carried the gold should be 
a stranger, not a neighbour: and it should 
not be known how much money he held. 



They would have known to a penny in the 
case of the rate-collector. And, after one 
had killed him, one should not take all his 
money— only some of it. Then one should 
put the body in some position where it would 
seem that the man had met his death by 
accident. At the bottom of a cliff? On the 
railway? Or even on this road at night, and 
pretend that he had been knocked down and 
killed by a passing motor-car. 

They would find money in his pockets — 
that would be the answer to any doubt as to 
murder. He could have been murdered only 
to get his money, and there is his money. 
No one would suspect — if all was natural. 

And his thoughts grew clearer and stronger. 
If the body was to be placed below a cliff, it 
would not do to beat in his head from behind. 
The injuries should be at the front. If you 
wished to pretend that a car had killed him, 
you should strike at the back. 

If no one saw the deed, no one would 
suspect — in such circumstances. These 
would be the lucky chances — and enough 
money on the man to leave plenty. Take 
enough, and, above all, never show that you 
had obtained money. That is how mur- 
derers betray themselves. One must never 
show money until one had accounted for its 
possession. . . . These would be the lucky 
chances. But so many, combining together, 
would mean the devil's luck — nothing less. 

He looked towards Belford and listened. 
There came a sound of wheels, then voices. 
Three men, sitting abreast in a dog-cart, were 
making the pony gallop up the hill from the 
beech wood. They were the two Fording- 
bridge gipsies and the stranger of the fair — 
all three of them drunk. They pulled up, 
fifty yards away, and wrangled noisily, while 
the sweating pony chafed and backed and 

44 Stan* still, ye slut, or Til cut the liver 
out o' yer." 

They had put down the man with difficulty, 
and he lurched about the road. 

11 There. Over there. Ye can't miss it. 
Goo 1 night." 

The whip fell with a cruel blow. The 
pony leaped into its collar and galloped 
away ; the gig went swaying along the road, 
raising dust, scattering loose stones. Soon 
it was a black speck on the white thread. 

" What's up, guv'nor?" 

George had joined the solitary figure. 

The man said he wanted to walk across 
the heath and through the fir enclosures, to 
catch his train at the junction. 

" How far*s it across? Selfish swabs, they 

VoL xxux,— 25, 

might V driven me round." The pallid, 
feeble man was steadying himself on his 
rickety legs, while he grumbled surlily. 
" Not out of their way ! How far across ? " 

" Matter of two miles," said George ; " but 
eight miles by the road. Look here," and 
he pointed to a faintly-marked track, where 
old cart-rucks and naked sand intersected the 
heather. "Follow that. See those broken 
fuzz bushes ? They're just above the gravel 
pits. Leave the pits on your right. Cross 
the line by the iron bridge — you'll see it when 
you get to it. And then follow the line." 

" All right." 

The man left the road and went slowly 
along the track, shambling and grumbling. 
He had reached the ragged gorse when, un- 
expectedly, he heard a voice close behind him, 
and he stopped and turned round. 

According to traditional custom there was 
heavy drinking in Belford village on the 
night of the pony fair, and conspicuous 
among topers at the Stag Inn sat George 
Inbolt He drank avidly and recklessly of 
expensive spirits, not your common beer ; but 
at closing time he could not pay his bill. The 
landlord chid him, and then George black- 
guarded his host in rare rammucky fashion. 

" I tell you I haven't got the tin to settle. 
You had all mine this afternoon. Put it on 
the slate, you weasel. You can't get blood 
out of a stone," and he stood up, fists clenched, 
eyes glaring. 

" Very good. Say no more," muttered the 

" Yes, but I will say more," shouted 
George, fiercely. " I'd pay if I had the 
money, don't I tell you ? Garr ! I'm sick 
of you all. You're all the same, I'm goin' 
into town, and be hanged to you. I'm 
goin' into Sethampton, to make my fortune." 

And next morning he went. 

He wrote from Southampton to Lizzie, 
saying : " You must wait for me six months. 
I have found work. I will make money." 

Then, after a few days, he wrote again' 
" This is the place for me. I was a fool not 
to come here before. I have dropped into 
good employment already, and there is gold 
to pick up in the streets just for the stooping. 
It is the sailors that bring all the money, and 
by buying things cheap and selling them 
dear to sailors men grow rich in a week. 
That is what I am beginning to do. Now, 
Liz, if you have a heart in your bosom you 
will wait six months for your true and loving 
husband. "0 

LizJo suffered doubt s.nd irresolution, was 



torn this way, that way, by prudence and 
love. But her love prevailed. She decided 
to wait, and she told the miller that he could 
not have her for half a year, if then. 

Life for Lizzie Veal and the rest of Belford 
moved slowly and sluggishly through the 
mists of autumn and the cold rains of winter. 
No excitement. Talk in the village about a 
missing man — lost at the fair; and a short 
bit in the Hants Advertiser ^ read out aloud 
at the Stag Inn — an Isle of Wight man 
mysteriously disappeared ! Then a police 
bill was stuck up here and there, with a 
description of the person ; and later a gipsy 
horse-dealer, in the company of a constable, 
asked a lot of questions at the Stag stables. 
But the village took no interest. It was all 
the tale of a stranger — " a foreigner," about 
whom nobody cared two straws. Everybody, 
however, was interested, intensely interested, 
when George Inbolt came back. 

"He has a-done proper at Setharmpt'n. 
He 'as paid Mr. Sa'anders arl he left on 
slate— come 'ome with a fort'n." 

" Mind you, he do sim to have the ole 
gen'leman's luck about un. Him be a-buyin' 
out old Mrs. Rice — fur to marry Miss Veal 
up at Parrott's, and they two to live there 

In fact, Mr. Inbolt was prospering swiftly. 
He was " Mister " now, no longer George. It 
was "Good evening Mr. Inbolt" — not "'Ow 
be un, Jarge?" as in the old days. He wore 
pepper-and-salt clothes week-days, and a 
black coat and bowler hat Sundays ; and his 
well-dressed wife was the busiest, proudest 
woman in Belford. 

He was lucky with the purchase of Road 
View Cottage and its acre of garden ground. 
He put down eighty pounds in cash, and a 
Southampton bank provided the balance ; 
but almost immediately "his lordship" of the 
Abbey found he could not brook a new free- 
holder right in the middle of him. So he gave 
George three hundred pounds for his bargain, 
and, further, granted him a forty years' 
lease at a ridiculously low rent — and, still 
further, praised his civility and obligingness. 

Thence onward George's luck was un- 
broken, his progress rapid and sure. With 
luck, and a shrewd, industrious wife to help 
him,' such a minor village potentate soon 
swells large. Lodgers taken, bees kept, pigs 
kept, dozens of wild ponies kept, super- 
vising jobs in the woods and fields, book- 
work at night Soon my lord added a 

wing to the cottage, making his obliging 
tenant a deputy bailiff. 

A brass plate at his porch announced that 
Mr. Inbolt was agent for fire and life insur- 
ance ; he gathered rents ; he became member 
of District Council ; when Mr. Rudge retired, 
he was appointed collector of rates and taxes. 

Now he was buying and selling picturesque 
cottages, as far off as Lyndhurst, M instead, 
Burley ; and the luck never failed. Directly 
he acquired a remote woodland patch, some 
artist would drop from the sky or rise through 
the earth and insist upon having it, at any 
figure. All that he touched turned to gold. 

And as to Lizzie : she possessed a grander 
home than she could well have imagined, and 
her children's voices made a sweeter music 
than she had ever heard in dreams. A 
peaceful, well-filled life. . . . Very rarely did 
anything of an exciting character happen at 
Belford, or bring it prominently into public 
attention. The river flooded the land in a 
wet season; the church was nearly burnt at 
Christmastime ; and once — when Lizzie was 
still a young wife — there came a considerable 
stir, with inquest at the Stag Inn, and long 
bits in the Hants Advertiser. 

Somebody's dog, " brevettin' about " for 
conies on the heath, " nosed out a carpse in 
they old gravel-pits." The corpse was un- 
recognizable. It had been washed by rain, 
gnawed by vermin, pecked by crows, but, 
nevertheless, the identity of the dead man 
was promptly established. It was that 
missing Isle of Wight foreigner. There were 
decipherable papers, the return half of a rail- 
way ticket, and a pocket-book stuffed full of 
money — two bank-notes and fifteen pounds 
in gold. A gipsy who gave evidence said 
there ought to have been more money found 
on the man — but gipsies are always liars. The 
death was caused by an accident, of course. 
Who could doubt it? This unhappy stranger 
— as the gipsy confessed —left the fair in a 
state of semi-intoxication. Then he went 
blundering over the heath, fell headlong into 
this chasm, and broke his skull. The skull 
was broken, across the frontal lobes; and 
the science of the doctor enabled him to 
show the jury precisely how the fracture had 

The long years passed, and Lizzie, as a 
comfortable and stoutish matron, was happy 
— very happy — until Fear came to dwell in 
her home. 

When did it come ? She could not recall . 
its coming ; but it was here now, indescrib- 
able, unconquerable, deadly. Vague, name- 
less fear — of what? She did not at first 
know. Perhapu the trouble began with a 



sadness on summer evenings, a depression of 
spirits when the fire was burning brightly, a 
foolish nervousness that shook her in the gay 
sunlight and then quickly subsided. It was 
a faint, trehnulous dread that made her snatch 
her boy to her breast and weep when he 
returned late from school. Then, by imper- 
ceptible stages, a dreadful oppression settled 
on her — perpetual fear. 

Gradually and very slowly she understood 
that the fear came out of him — her husband, 
filling the house, and making it a house of 
horror. But how, and why ? Why should his 
kind eyes, when he sat in thoughtful silence, 
frighten her merely because for a minute or 
so they did not seem to see her? Sh6 
watched him closely. She loved him as much 
as ever. Then why should she fear him ? 

He was the same as he had always been, 
loving and true and strong. No — the fear 
spread out in cold waves, making her heart 
beat fast, slacken, and almost stop. Out- 
wardly he might be unchanged ; but some- 
thing was going wrong with him — he was like 
a tree with a blight that poisons the air, and 
that will pass to other trees. Looking back- 
ward through the years, she thought no^y 
that from 4he- day of their marriage some 
subtle change had been working in him. She 
had been too happy and busy to notice It, but 
the change had been there always, insidiously 
progressing — like mildew in the food, like dry 
rot in the floor, like a taint in the blood. 

At last, suddenly, the fear crystallized and 
took form as this : He is going mad. v That 
is the change in him. Some day the horrible 
change will be consummated ; the lover, 
husband, father will be gone from them, and 
in his place will stand a stranger and a deadly 
foe. She had the true peasant's horror of 
insanity, and she could scarcely breathe as 
she thought of it. Some day this will happen : 
he will break out in raving madness, fall upon 
her and the children, and slaughter them. 

She suffered silent torture for a year, before 
she went to the doctor. It seemed like dis- 
loyalty and treachery to her loved one to go 
thus behind his back and speak of the peril, 
but the fear of it was more than she could bear. 

The, doctor reassured her, laughed at her 
weakness. His science enabled him to pooh- 
pooh all such morbid fancies. 

"Oh, nonsense, Mrs. Inbolt ! One of the 
sanest persons I ever knew ! I wonder what 
put it into your head ? *' 

" Such a many things have frightened me, 
sir — his queerness. And I do believe he him- 
self fears some mysterious illness taking a 
hold of him." 

" Has he said so — explicitly ? " 

" Two months ago, sir— a Sunday evenin' — 
he come to fetch me from the church, an* he 
asked me if I'd bin prayin' for him. I said 
yes, I'd bin pray in* for all of us ; and he 
said, * Pray for me most of all.' Why should 
he say such a thing as that ? " 

The doctor smiled. 

" My dear Mrs. Inbolt, we are none of us 
saints, and no doubt the best of us need our 
wives' prayers now and again." 

" My husband," said Lizzie, proudly, " has 
led a good life, doctor. Yes, I'll say it, God 
bless him. Doctor, there's no woman ever 
knew my husband's love except me— before 
or since we wed." 

11 Well, anyhow, you mustn't " 

"One minute, doctor. I'll be easier if you 
let me tell you all the queer things." And 
Lizzie Inbolt described what had appeared 
to her as symptoms of sinister import. 

11 Queer, eh ? " said the doctor. " I don't 
see anything queer in what you've told me so 
far. No, my good friend, symptoms of any- 
thing really wrong would be quite a different 
kettle of fish to all that." 

'* Do you think so, sir?" 

11 I'm. sure; of it . For . instance, a belief 
without basis of solid fact, any marked 
delusion, or temporary hallucination— — " ' 

But the doctor had to explain the meaning 
of these fine scientific terms before M*s. 
Inbolt could allow him to go on. ; 

"Sir, I wouldn't care to say true that it 
mayn't have been so with him — more than 
once. Ideas without what you said — 'base 
of real facts.' " . . \ 

"Oh, indeed?" ' 

" Yes. Twice latterly he's spoken queerly 
of some person that was mixed up in ijis 
private affairs years ago, as if he felt like he 
was in this person's power. Upon my truth, 
doctor, I do now believe that's a hal — hal— 
what you mentioned, sir." \ 

" Hallucination. How did your husband 
describe the power of this business friend ? " 

" Well, like as if he was under his control, 
not independent, as he really is ; as though 
it might be the manager of a bank, or some 
Government inspector." | 

The doctor looked at her keenly. 

"Mrs. Inbolt, what is uttered in thjs 
surgery will, of course, never be heard otft- 
side it Now, you don't think yoilr husbarjd 
is getting mixed in his accounts— his public 
charge ? " 

" Oh, no, sir " Mrs, Inbolt flushed. " My 
husband mighn be trusted with all the gold in 
the Royal Mint. Besides, it stands to reason 



— we've bin so lucky, sir. He has put bj F 

u Just so. He's all right, as I say. But, 
look here, you'd better watch him carefully. 
And question him. If he says anything 
that strikes you as unintelligible— well, just 
question him until he explains exactly what 
he does mean." 

She watched him carefully, and the horror 
deepened. Without logical root or founda- 
tion^ the Tear grew higher and stronger. The 
nerve-shaking dread was an emanation from 
him ; whether he spoke queerly or wisely 
made no difference ; he was the prey of some 
mysterious disease, which might baffle the 
skill of physicians, but which infallibly was 
spreading a poisonous atmosphere about its 

One afternoon in June, when the air was 
hot and heavy, he sat at his tea gloomily 
silent; and after the meal was over he did 
not go out to his work. She asked him if he 
felt ill, and he said no, but confessed that he 
was troubled. She asked him many questions. 
What had upset him? Had he received 
bad news ? She pressed him with questions. 

11 Well, if you must know, I've had a 
message— from a man I've got to see." 

'* What sort of man ? " And she continued 
to question him. u Someone you want to 
avoid ? Someone who, you fancy, has got 
you in his power?" 

11 Yes, Vm in his power — so much as this : 
I must go when he ca'alls me." 

u Where are you to go ? " 

" Not far. Don't you worry. It's nothing 
—may prove nothing. If I see him it'll be 
between now and to-morrow morning." 

To her mind his answers, his whole 
manner, were very queer. She believed that 
the business appointment was an imagina- 
tion, not a fact j she did not believe in the 
existence of the man. It all formed part of 
what the doctor had described— hallucina- 
tion. Stie was almost frightened out of her 
wits i yet she managed to conceal her agita- 
tion, and went on questioning him, 

" Is it your Lyndhurst speculation? Have 
you bin <w-speculatin' ? " 

" Liz>" he said, stretching his hand across 
the tea-table, "don't round on me. I have 
loved you truly. All I've ever done— has 
been done for your sake." 

She burst into tears, took his hand and 
pressed it 3 raised it to her lips and kissed it. 

(fi George, ma dear, I— -I'll never round on 

"*Llz/ HE SAIft, STRETCHING HIS HAND ACROSS THE ltiX^TVw£.4| l*^lWfr^fcWTl!|iA5 i,i EiN ME."' 



you. I was on'y thinkin' for your good. See 
— this is my thought. You may be broodin' 
like on some foolishness you did as a lad, 
and thinkin' if it came to light, now you 
stand so high, it'd bring disgrace. But, ma 
dear, that's nonsense — fancy. Suppose any 
men you rammucked about with in those 
days came forward now to tell tales of how 
you used to knock down pheasants o' dark 
nights — why, no one 'ud think the worse of 
you now. It's just fancy for you to fear 
otherwise. It's all to your credit to have 
risen from poverty and humbleness — yes, 
and wildness. Take my word, there's no 
man alive can bring you real trouble. It's 
fancy- trouble — naught else." 

He seemed to be cheered by this sensible 
talk. Next day he seemed quite cheerful, 
more like his old self. 

'.'That was all right, Liz," he s*d. " Don't 
you think of that again. It's past." 

But fear woke her in the m|cldle of the 
night; and when she felt for hintf with tremb- 
ling hands he was not there. He had gone 
from the bed. - 

She lit a candle and looked round. His 
clothes were gone ; the door was ajar. Then 
a horrible thought possessed her. Panic- 
stricken, she leapt out of bed, rushed to the 
room where her two youngest children slept. 
All silent ; she looked at them, and at the 
two elder boys, sleeping peacefully. Her* 
children were safe — not butchered by a sleep- 
walking maniac. 

A cold wind was rising from the hall ; the 
front door stood wide open ; he had left the 
house. She huddled on her clothes, came 
down, and went out into the roadway. In the 
moonlight one could see the whiteness of the 
palings and the colour of the flowers along 
the trim border. 

Suddenly the silence was faintly stirred. 
Listening intently, she heard a distant patter. 
Footsteps on the road from the heath — a man 
running nearer and nearer — a heavy, stagger- 
ing footfall rapidly approaching ! The 
strangeness and horror of the thing froze her 
blood. She drew back into the garden, 
clinging to the pales. 

The runner was her husband — utterly 
exhausted, dead-beat. She was shaking in 
every limb, but she helped him into the house, 
and he sank upon a chair — face white, sweat- 
ing, eyeballs rolling. 

"I have seen him. I must go when he 
ca'alls. He ca'alled me — and I've seen him," 

She got him to bed and questioned him, 
and he repeated the same words. And soon 
he slept, while she lay by his side sobbing. 

He stayed in bed for two days after this, 
and, although he implored her not to fetch 
the doctor, she disobeyed him. 

"See, George. It stands to reason I 
couldn't let you be groaning with pain, and 
no good advice. Here's the kind doctor 
come to see you." 

" Well, Mr. Inbolt," and the doctor laughed 
genially. "What sort of game is this that 
you've been playing — at your time of life ?" 

George laughed and stroked his short 
grey moustache. 

"A bit foolish, doctor, I admit. But it 
was like this. I felt the fidgets in bed — 
couldn't sleep no way, but twist and turn, 
broad awake. So I thought I'd have a run 
up to the heath and back. I was a famous 
runner once, sir, and I know they used to 
say, ' Run a mile, and you'll sleep.' And I 
did sleep, too; but it's given me the aches 
pretty hot." 

"Yes, muscular rheumatism. You lie 
warm there, and don't you try such pranks 

" No, sir. Once bit, twice shy." 

"Now, my dear Mrs. Inbolt," said the 
doctor, when he came downstairs, "you 
are not to be anxious. His physique is 
magnificent. Just keep him warm ; he'll be 
fit for work to-morrow. And never indulge 
again in those morbid fears of yours. I am 
able to pronounce definitely — he is no more 
going mad than you or I." 

At dusk of a September evening she stood 
at the garden gate and waited for her young 
schoolboy. Perhaps the little lad would loiter 
in the village and come home with his father, 
hand in hand. That sometimes happened. 
The dusk was deepening, and she peered 
down the white road. 

Turning her head presently, she saw lights 
advancing from the other direction. A motor- 
car was coming very slowly down the slope 
from the beech wood and the heath, and, as 
it moved, voices of men moved with it. 

Men were walking by the car. She could 
hear the voices plainly now. A farm labourer 
was hurrying forward, calling to her. 

"Missus! Ther' 'as a-bin an accident. 
The gen'lemen's car hev knocked down Mr. 

And other voices followed. 

" 1 )cctor's here. We met the doctor. . . . 
Yes, the kitchen. Get a tnattfess. The 
kitchen table— bring down a mattress." 

The voices were all round her. She was in 
the midst of strangers and friends; machinery 
throbbed in her ears ; the light of the lamps 




dazzled her eyes, . . . They were carrying 
him into the house. She heard vaguely, saw 
vaguely, This is the doctor ; these are two 
travelling gentlemen ; the youth in the leather 
coat is the driver of the car. She was 
frantically pushing through the group —to 
see her husband. 

He is torn, broken, bleeding. And, in the 
first agonized pangs of her grief, she is dimly 
conscious of the cruel inner voice that speaks 
to her. The inner voice says : — 

M The horror is lifting from your life You 
and your children will be safe henceforth," 

" No one can say it was our fault." That 
was the voice of one of the gentlemen, 
talking to the doctor, 

44 We came up that long piece before we 
struck him, not more than ten miles an hour— 
not ten miles an hour as we came over the 
top," That was the voice of the driver. " I 
believe he did it on purpose. 3i 

" But his back was to you when you ran 
him down. How could it have been on 
purpose ? " That was the voice of the doctor 
as he stooped over the mulilated form. 

The voices continued. 

" He was running nearly as fast as we were 
going ourselves," 

4 * But he never heard you coming." 

"He saw us," 

" He wasn't on the road at all as we came 
up the hilL He was a hundred yards from 
the road, walking with another man." And 
the voices continued, 

44 The other man will corroborate my 

" I didn't see any other man with him, sir. 
He was standing alone when I saw him." 

44 You saw the other man, Jack ? " 

" No. I only saw this poor fellow, 3 ' 

u Well, I'll swt?ar I'm right. The two men 
were together. The other man went on 
across the moor and this man ran into the 

The doctor asked the gentlemen and their 
chauffeur to go out of the room, and all the 
voices ceased. 

"Will he die of it, doctor?" 

11 He is dying now." 

11 George — ma dear ! " 

" Put your ear to his mouth. He is 
endeavouring to speak to you." 

And the wife caught the muffled words* 
borne in the last faint breaths that he drew 
on earth : — 

" Pray for me. Make the prayer that all T 

c : . 

Where Are the Wasps in Winter? 


Author oj u Life Histories cj Familiar Plants? u Some Nature Biographies? u P&/s Into Nature s\ 

Ways? etc > etc. 

Illustrated from Original Photographs by the Author. 

-JFI * 

ARLY in last September wasps 
were so abundant that they 
became a veritable plague. In 
the house they appeared to be 
J gs) ktv^^ ^ everywhere, In the kitchen 
> m b m _5j area, when cooking was in 
progress, they became positively dangerous. 
Everything sweet or tasty that was placed upon 
the table was immediately surrounded and 
attacked ; even a cloth that savoured of gravy 
or fruit juice, if laid down for a few moments, 
became a source 
of danger and the 
hand that next 
touched it risked 
a painful sting. 
Some few particu- 
larly enterprising 
individuals that 
escaped the eye 
of the cook have, 
indeed, quite re- 
cently reappeared 
amongst certain 
choice preserves, 
and although all 
danger from their 
stings "was" past," 
yet they seemed 
just as potent to 
cause a scare as 
if they were 

Later on t at the end of the month, only 
an occasional wasp caused annoyance, even 
in the kitchen, in early October a few still 
found their way into the house, but these 
behaved very differently from the early 
September ones- They seemed to have no 
hostile intentions regarding the cook, or 
even her commodities ; their object in life 
appeared confined to a careful scrutiny of 
the window-frames, the openings where the 
sash -ropes worked being especially attractive 
to them. Also the folds in the curtains 
round the windows offered a further attraction 
for these October wasps ] so pleased were 
they with these quarters that they would often 
stay there for days together — until, indeed, 
there came a cry of " Another w + asp ! " after 
which their career was brief. 

further remarked 

Fia. 1.— Three ipeciei of waipt— In the top row ar* the main j in the middle 
low the quc*tu, oj female* ; and loweimotl the workers or neuters. 

At the end of October wasps had become 
almost forgotten, when (doubtless in 'a 
moment of inspiration) the cook, obsessed 
by the wasp topic, suddenly ptopounded this 
question : " Where have all the wasps gone?" 
bor a time there was silence. Then the 
suggestion came that the cold had killed 
them all. Everyone seemed satisfied wilh 
this answer until the cook (who only on veify 
rare occasions thinks wilh a scientific mind) 
11 If that is so, where do 
the first wasps of 
summer come 
from? "That ques- 
tion presented a 
stumbling- block, 
consequently be- 
came confused 
and was left in a 
very ha/ y and un- 
satisfactory state. 
Around the 
two questions pro- 
[lounded by the 
cook there hangs 
a tale — a story 
wonderful and 
though its 
interest centres 
on facts and not 
on fiction. 
The October wasp that hides in the curtain 
in a warm room is one of the marvels of 
creation. It is a queen wasp. Queen in 
name only, for there is probably no animal 
on the earth that works harder, or is able to 
perform so many and such varied kinds of 
labour, and withal carry on her work with 
such devoted energy. 

In the early stages of the wasp city there 
are only two kinds of individuals. There is 
first the queen, which is the only perfect 
female of the community. Then appear the 
numerous workers, or neuters, which are 
really imperfect or undeveloped females. At 
a much later stage other queens appear^ and, 
finally, malrs, or drones. In Fig. i the three 
clas^.^i-TKiwdv^l^jftrpMstvwn. The males 

slim bodies and 



Fit 2,-Th* 

oi m tw-wMp in a holly and htwlhora 


their longer antennae, or feelers; the queens 
by their large size; and the workers are the 
smaller active wasps seen everywhere during 
the summer and autumn months. It Is rare 
that the original queen is seen after the 
worker wasps appear; her duties then confine 
her within the walls of the city of which she 
was the foundress- 

How comes it, though, that the late wasp 
must always be a queen? Why may it not be 
a worker, or even a drone? 
Well, the so-called "nest" of 
the wasps — which is really a 
wasp city with several thousand 
inhabitants — is only a very frail 
structure ; indeed, it is built of 
paper. In the process of manu- 
facture the pulp from which 
the wasp-paper is made has to 
be moistened and kneaded, and, 
as the numerous workers em 
ployed are continually adding 
their contributions, the combs 
hang heavy. Consequently, their 
growth is necessarily limited, 
since the safety u[ the structure 
has also to be considered. 
Hence it follows that the more 
the wasp city thrives, the 
greater the vitality of the 
swarm, and the larger its 
combs become, so the end 
and destruction of the fabric 
are Imsiened 

Just as the community has 

reached the zenith of its glory and is most 
flourishing some strange things happen within 
the city, and afterwards everything seems to 
go wrong, and the end speedily comes. The 
diligent and persistent workers seem all at 
once to realise that more work on their part is 
useless, and then to lose heart and purpose in 
life. Some of them simply cling u> the cells on 
which they have laboured so longj and there 
starve, Others (probably the younger ones) 
wander away from their home to return no 
more- Guided by their keen sense of smell, 
many of these discover the nearest warm 
kitchen where savoury foods are being pre- 
pared, and there they become freebooters 
and give themselves over to orgy ; for now 
they have no longer need to carry food 
to the nursery for the developing grubs. They 
appear to be ravenously hungry and attack 
almost every kind of sweet or meat food that 
appears, although their habit of pouncing 
upon flies and carrying them off is no longer 
indulged in. 

Their orgy, however it may revive their 
spirits, does them but little good, even 
though they may escape from the kitchen — 
for their hour has come. As night approaches 
cold, or perhaps frost, overtakes them ; for 
their home is no longer a home for them. So 
they rest beneath a leaf, or in some similar 
situation, and there become chilled and 
numbed. Next day the warm sun may 
revive them for an hour or two, but later on 
it comes cold again, and so they may linger 

a[ the Irtc-Wftffr! Wftli IS butler paper coveting red 


lo show 



Fig. 4 —A tide view of the comba— L*tJ t*o be icen in tome of ihe lowei cell* 

on for a day or two, ill-tempered and always 
ready to sting at the slightest provocation, 
until at last an extra chill spells their doom. 
Such is the normal end of the worker, or 
neater wasp, after its several weeks of 
laborious life. 

The lordly and lazy male wasps fare much 
the same* although they succumb to cold and 
wet much more readily than the hardy little 
workers. Probably, too, the exhausted queen 
meets the same end. I have, however, pre- 
viously stated that young queens are produced 
late in the year This event occurs when 
the fabric of the city has reached such pro- 
portions as impose a limit to any further 
expansions, having regard to the safety of so 
fragile a building in a precarious and un- 
certain climate. It may be climatic warnings 
that first awaken the workers to the fact that 
the edifice on which they have laboured is 
becoming unstable. 

How the young queens come into being is 
difficult to understand, All through the 
early part of the season the eggs deposited 
in the aells by the queen produce the grubs 
of common workers, but almost as soon as 
chilly nights make themselves felt some 
special large cells begin to appear (some of 
these may be seen in ihe centre of Fig + 4, 
and also in the lower part of Fig 9), and 
from these develop the queens of future 
colonies. Whether the queen deposits a 
different kind of egg, or whether the differ- 
ence is brought about by special feeding of 

these queens other special 
cells l>egin to produce males. 
When, in this way, the sexes 
have appeared, those strange 
happenings to which I have 
referred take place. 

Suddenly atl the machinery 
of the city stops, as it were, 
The builders of the cells give 
up work ; the busy workers 
that return laden with material 
to build new cells, or with 
food for the developing grubs, 
seem to become stupefied and 
inactive. Even those wasps 
that remain active seem to lose 
all their orderly movement and 
to be continually in the way 
of each other ; in fact, con~ 
fusion has taken the place of 
orderliness throughout the 
whole city* 
Amongst the combs, around which the 
stupefied worker-wasps are continually con- 
gregating, numerous slim - bodied wasps 
suddenly become extremely busy. These 
are conspicuous on account of their long 
antennas, or feelers, which are continually 
quivering in a very excited manner. These 
are the prospective bridegrooms for the young 
queens. From careful observation I am 
inclined to think that their mates are selected 
within the nest, and that then they leave 
their home together never to return. How- 
ever, the honeymoon appears to be spent in 
the immediate neighbourhood of the nest 
In the case of a tree wnsp I observed no 

the grubs by the workers; is a datable 

Almost contemporary with the advent of 

Vot ixxix,— 26 

ILnmMTOAth and wh 


awing iwo 



fewer than six young queens accompanied by 
their male suitors within the space of a yard 
on the ground beneath the nesL Some of 
these 1 returned to the nest, but they imme- 
diately left it again ; strange to say, also, they 
seemed to possess the power of finding each 
other again when separated. 

When the queens and males have left the 
nest some of the more active workers appear 
to become strangely possessed; they seem, 
indeed, to have gone mad. Instead of 
teudsng and feeding the young grubs with 
that jealous care so characteristic of them, 
they now com mence to undo 
their work in an extraordi- 
nary manner. The develop- 
ing larvae are set upon, 
dragged (rom their cells, 
and carried outside the nest, 
where they are left to perish 
on the ground 

The significance of this 
proceeding presents a 
problem to which no satis- 
factory answer has, to my 
knowledge, as yet been ad- 
vanced. On the face of it, 
it appears that the workers 
realize that they will not be 
able to rear their charges, 
and so, rather than let them 
slowly starve within the 
nest, they mercifully remove 
them outside, w T here they will 
quickly die. However, a little study of the 
actions and habits of wasps scarcely encourages 
one to credit ihem with so muth forethought; 
indeed, one soon discovers that their move- 
ments are most automatic, but on this point 
lack of space will not permit me to enlarge. 

To explain the matter one has to ask : 
What benefit does the wasp community 
derive from this strange behaviour? It may 
be said that an instinctive impulse to clear 
the nest of decaying matter guides them to 
remove the starving grubs, but then comes 
the question ; Why should they clear a nest 
which they are then deserting? 

There is only one way, I think, in which 
the economy of the wasp race can benefit 
by this action, and therein lies a probable 
explanation of the extraordinary conduct of 
the workers during their last hours within 
the nest. 

No matter how late in the season it is 
when the wasp community disperses, there are 
always signs that the wasps were till then 
still extending the structure of the nest 
Little combs of empty cells are always ready 

Fig. 6-TKt queen of the common w&tp biting 

etf bill of wood to manufac t urr wood - pulp foi 

the building of btr borne* 

slightly in advance of those which contain 
eggs. Also, when the end comes, some of 
the cells always contain larvae and pupae. 
The city seems to have suddenly come to a 
dead stop in the midst of its development. 
It follows that the tiny larva; that hatch 
from the eggs will soon perish. The fat and 
half-developed larva; (Fig. 8) would, however, 
decay in the cells. If this happened, the 
undeveloped pupa^ in the closed cells (which 
would be most probably queen or male indi- 
viduals, and therefore important to the 
community) would, as they matured in the 
deserted nest, emerge a midst 
most unhealthy surround- 
ings. The workers, there- 
fore, as ajast labour for 
their race, instinctively re- 
move the grubs, which can 
never mature in the nest, 
for the benefit of the deve- 
loping pupae of the males 
and queens, which may 
mature. Furthermore, if the 
grubs were left to decay, 
the result would be to attract 
such enemies into the nest 
as would probably be in- 
jurious to the pupae that 
remained. That, I think, is 
the true explanation of the 
apparently wonderful fore- 
thought on the part of the 
When the work of removing the grubs 
from the cells is finished the wnrker- wasps 
then forsake their home, or a few may idle 
about its vicinity until cold or wet overtakes 
them. A few late queens or males may 
afterwards develop in the nest, but they 
quickly leave it ; and then, while the 
structure holds together, it becomes a prey 
to all sorts of animals— snails, slugs, earwigs, 
flies, beetles, wood lice, etc. 

By that time Lhe mating of the queens has 
taken place, and, like the workers, the male 
wasps have also perished. Out of kll the 
inhabitants of the wrecked city none now 
remain except the young queens. These are 
the only individuals destined to live over 
the winter. Not all of them, by any means, 
will survive to become the mothers of a vast 
generation in the future; nevertheless, a few 
will maintain the race. 

In the ordinary way the fortunate queen 
w r ill shelter in some crevice in a stone wall, 
under the bark t;f a tut*?, or, not infrequently, 

in the l&tHlh^RSf W **F T 4^€ W<*iflt4 to which I 
have previously referred. If left undisturbed. 



the folds of a curtain 
in a not too waim 
room provide a 
favourite spot ; but, 
as I have already 
hinted, that selection 
is positively dangerous 
for the wasp com- 
munity. In some such 
situations then, clings 
ing firmly by her legs, 
and often holding by 
her strong jaws, the 
queen sleeps away the 
winter months- 
Some bright day at 
the end of April the 
dormant queen 
awakes and crawls 
sleepily out into the 

sunlight. Her first 

thought is her toilet. 

Her wings, body, 

antenna;, and face are 

briskly brushed by 

means of her bristly legs; and then, having 

removed all dust and dirt from her limbs, 

she takes to her wings. She has not travelled 

far, perhaps, before she alights and care- 
fully investigates an old tree stump ; but she 

is soon off again. Then the corner of the 

roof of a thatched cottage occupies her 

attention for a few minutes, and afLer wards 

a hawthorn and holly hedge, la the latter 

place she becomes busily 

occupied for the rest of that 

day and for many days that 

follow. In short, this queen 

has discovered a suitable site 

on which to commence 

operations for the building 

of a new wasp city. 

Afterwards you can almost 

always find her round that 

particular part of the hedge. 

it is her custom, however, 

to make little flying journeys 

between the hedge and a 

dry wooden shutter of a barn 

in the field close by. From 

this sfiutter, by means of her 

strong jaws, she will tear off 

fibres of the wood and then 

carry them back to her 

building site amongst the 

holly leaves (Fig. 6), After 
the fibres into a 

»i cell* eaa* nmy be seen ; in iJic c< nual 
the a rub*, or larvae waiting to be fed ; the i£ftled-up cclli 
the developing pupa?, which are Almost ready lo btcomr 


pulp she will then plaster it [^t^ 

to a branch, and so she pu p* removed from the eta*** crik building of eel Is. Later on» the 

continues until a short 
suspended pillar is 
formed. More pulp 
is then applied to this 
footstalk (or rather 
headstalk, for the 
wasp, unlike man, 
commences to build 
the uppermost storey 
of her house first), in 
the form of a little 
cap, and under this 
four small cells, with 
their mouths opening 
downwards, are 
placed, these also 
being formed of the 
same material 

Such is the begin- 
ning of the nest, and 
immediately the four 
celts are formed eygs 
are deposited in them, 
Outside these cells 
others are soon 
added, and, by the addition of new layers 
of paper, the cap-like covering is extended 
to cover these, and to fall below, their 
edges being joined at the base, so that the 
comb is completely hidden from view, a 
single round opening being left as entrance 
to the nest (Fig. 5). 

The eggs that were first deposited then 
begin to hatch out their grubs, and these 
have to be led on chopped 
insects and vegetable food. 
So the wasp mother's labours 
increase, but still she per- 
severes and keeps pace with 
the work* As the larvae 
grow, she has to increase 
the height of the walls of 
their cells to accommodate 
them. At last, however, 
those larvaj that hatched 
first become full - fed and 
proceed to spin a silken cap 
over the opening of their 
cells, Ten days later, or there- 
abouts, from these cells emerge 
the first worker-wasps. 

After the latter event the 
wasp city grows apace. 
These worker - wasps are 
soon ready and willing assist- 
ants of their mother, and 
i qWfti I jtafitlTl^s capable as she 

in the 



-m 9. i 
:clJs — \\t 

□t ihc common wasp, containing faux ihousand 
lize may be appreciated by obiemng the po«rase-»lainp in ih? centre, which hat 
been reduced proportionately in photographing. 

time of the queen mother is entirely occupied 
in depositing eggs in the cells made by the 
workers. The latter not only extend the 
cells and walls of the city\ but also collect 
food for the young, tending and feeding them 
with motherly instinct. Sometimes, too, in 
the case of the loss of the queen, they will 
also deposit eggs ; but these only produce 
male brood, and consequently without the 
queen the swarm eventually fails and the nest 
is deserted* 

In due course the workers suspend a 
second comb, or terrace, by short pillars 
from the first one, and finally many others, 
each being attached to the one immediately 
above it ; and so the nest increases in size 
until it becomes externally like that shown in 
Fig, 2, and internally as seen in Figs. 3 and 4. 
It will be observed that the larvre in the cells 
are suspended upside down and that the 
worker-wasps tend them in that position. 
Everything in waspland is topsy-turvy, from 
the very moment when the queen com 
niences to build her home until its dissolution 


after the advent of the males 
and the young queens. 

Such is the method 
adopted in building by the 
several species of British 
tree - wasps and ground- 
wasps. The common wasp, 
so familiar in summer time, 
in its nest beneath the 
ground, often extends its 
combs to much larger 
dimensions than the tree- 
was ps- In Fig* 9 a comb 
is shown containing over 
four thousand cells, and this 
comb was the largest of 
ten, In this nest there 
would be, at the lowest esti- 
mate, twenty thousand cells, 
and it should be remem- 
bered that the worker cells 
are sometimes used two or 
three times over for the 
rearing of larvae. With these 
facts in mind one may 
readily understand why 
fruitgrowers advocate the 
killing of the queen wasps 
that may be seen at any 
time from October to May, 
for each one that lives may 
become the parent of a 
vast community by the 
To distinguish between the six different 
kinds of British social wasps requires an expert^; 
the nests of the several species, however, differ 
somewhat in their external covering. Three 
species are illustrated in Fig, i, the central one 
of which is the common ground- wasp, and the 
rows on the right and left are two of the 
commonest species of tree wasps* 

In concluding this brief outline of wasp 
life I may add that, from what has been 
written here, it will be obvious that the dis- 
covery of a wasp in winter is nothing unusual, 
because such a wasp will be an hibernating 
queen. Also, though one's sympathy may 
lean towards the wasps in the hour when 
the wonderful fabric of the queen and her 
labourers becomes doomed to be wrfeked, 
yet we may ask: What if it were not so? 
What if the workers lived through the winter 
and commenced their work early in spring, 
toother with their guiding queen mother? 
What, indeed ! By autumn there would be a 
plague upon the land, and wasps would he 
reigning sififeW&.^ fro r 



By Otto Meyer, a Wood-Carver of Bromberg. taming about twenly-lwo shillings a week. 



[A wonderful exhibition of pictures by men who work hard for the if daily bread has been brought together 
in Berlin by a Political Economist, Dr, Levenstein, whose method of gelling at the inner consciousness 
of the working man has convinced him that there is an artistic spark in almost everyone which only 
needs to be awakened. It is obvious that this conclusion does not apply to German working men only. 
We are persuaded that there are quite as many in this coons ry who are capable of producing an- work of 
at least equal quality. We hope, therefore, thai any bona 'fide working man among our readers who has 
ever devoted his leisure 10 drawings of the kind published in these pages will send us specimens of his 
work, as we should Like to produce an article of this kind not " made in Germany." J 

NE would hardly imagine that 
the conditions of life of the 
modern working man> even in 
a country where social legisla- 
tion is so advanced as in 
Germany, would Ik- rnknbud 
to bring out that leaning towards the artistic 
which is within every man and woman in one 
form or another, 

This scepticism is disarmed, however, in 
the case of an exhibition "of pictures which 
has attracted considerable attention in the 
German capital. It ts nothing less than a 
collection of paintings and etchings by 
absolutely untrained German working men, 
got together from the four quarters of the 
Empire, and hung in gay disorder, the very 
good by the side of the very bad, the inspired 
cheek by jowl with the tasteless and banal 

The collection, which is the first of Us 
kind, has been formed by Dr. Adolf Leven- 
stein, a psychologist who has made a special 
study of the mentality of the German 
working man. The six hundred and fifty- 
five pictures the exhibition comprises are 

housed in the upper rooms of a beer 
restaurant in the busy Potsdamer Strasse in 
the heart of Berlin, The exhibitors include 
canal workmen, shoemakers, carpenters, 
weavers, mechanics, compositors, saddlers, 
masons, lithographers, locksmiths, up- 
holsterers, painters, miners, bricklayers, gar- 
deners, cigar workers, tailors, and a score 
or more of trades with their infinite sub- 

There is no catalogue of the exhibition, but 
by the side of every exhibit or group of 
exhibits is a printed slip giving the workman- 
artist's name and details of his conditions of 
life. It is wonderful how a few bare facts 
about the personality of the artist illuminate 
the work of one of these proletariat painters. 
Here is the slip of the author of some 
charming coloured illustrations, in picture 
poster style, for children's fairy-books : — 
Name ... ... ... Heinrich Schullz, 

Al^o - Thirty-one. 

Marri£&"fcjinal from ... Unmarried. 

l-1teffiOFMICHISA^S lScl K . 

Average weekly wage ,.. ML 40 (about 3js.). 



The work of this humble printer is full of 
energy, and, as an exception, reveals an eye 
susceptible to the beauties of Nature, the 
blue sky and the green fields, little of which 
he must see, earning his forty marks a week 
in the noisy com posing room. Nearly all the 
talent seems to lie in the printing and litho- 
graphing trades, although a chain- maker, a 
baker's apprentice, a chair- carver, and a 
carpenter all display signs of unmistakable 
talent, The chain-maker, with a weekly 
wage of twenty one marks, contributes some 
exquisitely finished etchings of some of the 
cities of the Rhine, his natal region. The 
chair-carver is represented by some charming 
water-colour sketches of scenery on the shores 
of Lake Michigan, one of which is repro- 
duced at the head of this article. This 
man, whose name is Otto Meyer, was discon- 
tented with his life in Chicago, and returned to 
Berlin and twenty-five marks a week after five 
years of the United States. One lithographer, 
whose travels must have taken him to England, 
has sent in a series of most artistically-finished 
pen-and-ink drawings of St. Paul's and 
Westminster Abbey and a delightful water- 
colour study of a typical London coster- 
monger selling cabbages off a hand-barrow. 
Here may be seen the card of Frederick 


Drawn from life by Emil Miilkr, aged twenty. Stone-Carver, of Drei 
Weekly wages about twenty-lwo shillings. 

Peilmann, bookbinder — in German, a generic 
term, including the pasteboard and box- 
ma^ing trades— whose clever work in pen 
and ink and in sepia, illustrations to German 
fairy tales, stands in such glaring contrast 
with the grim legend of poverty; "Wages 
five marks a week, with free board and 

The gems of the whole collection are, how- 
ever, unquestionably the work of Emil M filler, 
a twenty- year-old stone-carver of I )resden, who 
is earning twenty five murks a week. His 
are some marvellously suggestive sketches in 
pastels of nooks and corners of the pearl of 
the Elbe, his native city, a flying buttress of 
the church, a projecting gable of the palace, 
simply drawn t but full of all the dignity of 
age, the stately repose of ancient buildings. 
It seems hardly credible that a youth, brought 
up in the national schools and toiling in the 
masons 1 shops from morning till night, should 
have been able to cull from his everyday 
surroundings these insignificant features and 
lend them such notably artistic expression. 
His talent is real It is clearly manifested in 
some delightfully humorous drawings of 
foremen and fellow- work men, "The Architect 
and the Baron," two mates thus nicknamed 
in a cheap restaurant, rough sketches of faces 
seen in the streets, police- 
men, postmen^ sailors. He 
has a rare command of line. 
But a visit to this work- 

r men's art exhibition is worth 

while if only for the sake of 
the insight it affords into the 
psychology of the German 

The majority of the 
pictures are of the grey, 
depressed impressionist 
school There are some 
exhibits by men employed 
in the great steel and elec- 
tricity works, showing acci- 
dents ; a little group of 
horror - stricken workmen 
about a huge, swiftly-revolv- 
ing machine, waiting in 
thrilled silence for the Behe- 
moth to render up the victim 
it has sucked into its jaws. 
There are three mournful 
sketches in chalks, which, 
one feels, reproduce all the 
terror instilled into the heart 
.^.sensitive man by the 
si pfobleffi'of life, the un- 


answered question why some 



may idle whilst 
others must work. 
These deeply - im- 
pressive pictures are 
by a carpenter who, 
in a sketch of his 
carpenter's work- 
shop, shows himself 
plunged in thought, 
while his fellow - 
workmen sleep 
away the lunch hour. 
On the imagin- 
ative side one of 
the most remark- 
able and Interesting 
exhibits in the entire 
collection is a big 
frame containing 
sepia sketches made 
during his years of 
retirement after he 
had got past his 
work by an old coal- 
nriner who had 
spent forty years 
of his life under 
ground. These 
pictures are naive 
and unpretentious, 

By 1 Karl Rather, Carpenter's Assistant, Weekly wages about twenty-four shillings. 

The Author is seen in the foreground, "meditating on Hi 


but they show the 
workings of the miners' imaginations; the 
faces and fantastic forms which the shining 
ma-sses of coal, the trickling streams of 
water^ the j grimy supports, assume in the 
distorted visions of the toilers in the bowels 
of the earth. There are studies, too, 
of industrial towns — a forest of chimneys 
against a sky reddened with the reflection 
of a myriad furnaces; impressions of a rain- 
swept street of hovels such as many a weary 
workman must traverse on his way home 
from the factory, or else a scene at the gates 
of the works when the men are assembling 
in the grey light of dawn or dispersing in the 
dimness of evening. Not the least interest- 
ing contributions are those which show the 
workings of religion or of very primitive 
artistic inspiration \ badly -drawn allegorical 
groups, included in the exhibition perhaps 
only for the sake of the artistically -lofty 
fought they convey. In these allegorical 
groups can be traced the struggle between 
natural talent and the influence of debasing 
surroundings, by which is meant the influence 
of hideous barrack tenement houses and 
gimcrack modern furniture, Whether it 
has any* significance it is impossible to say, 
but as a curious circumstance it may be 
mentioned that there are not more than 

half-a-dozen nudes in the whole collection. 
How does religion reveal itself in the worker? 
Look at this rather garish oil painting — - 
" Death and Life," its author calls it. He is 
a baker, and painted this picture night after 
night as he tended the bread ovens in a cellar 
bakery in Berlin, It represents all the fruits 
of its creator's bitter night reflections, the 
thought that he was sacrificing health and a 
mind striving after higher things in nightly 
labour that the rest of the world might eat. 

Standing there in the midst of these reve- 
lations of the workman's soul* Dr. Levenstein 
spoke of how he came to conceive the idea 
of an exhibition of workmen J s art t the first of 
its kind ever to have been held. 

"All my life," he said, "I have lived 
with the working people, and I have tried 
to learn their way of thinking, their outlook 
on life. I have gone among them as a 
lodger, lived with one family in the most 
miserable quarters, shared their meals, their 
pleasures and sorrows, heard their conversa- 
tions, observed their interests in their sur- 
roundings. That was how I discovered the 
germ of art in the working man, and I 
tended it I have a method of pursuing this 
investigation of mine winch I have reason to 

" Here is a list of questions which X 



"1>*-ATH AND 11F8* 

By a Berlin Baker's Apprentice, earning about twenty- two shilling* a week. 

have sent out in thousands to working men 
throughout the Empire. I believe it com- 
prises everything which would give one the 
information necessary to understand the 
mind of the worker. I ask him for details 
of his youthful bringing up, his surroundings 
his first experiences as a worker, his relations 
to the other sex. I ask him whether Ke takes 
pleasure in his work ; whether it suits him ; 
what would be his favourite occupation if he 
were in a position to choose. I ask him 
whether he likes reading ; what he reads ; 
whether he has any hobby. His views on 
religion — does it afford him consolation ? His 
attitude on the drink question — does he find 
alcohol necessary for his work ? Of course, 
the replies are absolutely confidential. 1 
receive a great many answers, for my com- 
rades trust me and know that my psycho- 
logical research is undertaken in their behalf, 
for their advantage, 

** In the course of my investigations I was 
struck by the number of German workmen 
who had a natural bent for the fine arts, and 
this gave me the idea for my exhibition, I 
have the widest connections in working 
circles through my question-sheets, and I 
had no difficulty in forming the nucleus of 
this exhibition, 

11 Now look there ! " and he pointed 
towards his office, through the open door of 
which was to be seen an immense pile of 
pictures, roughly wrapped in paper, some 

without wrappings 
at all, executed on 
every imaginable 
substance from 
canvas down to 
cardboard. "Those 
are some of the 
fifteen hundred 
pictures sent in by 
workmen after I 
opened this pre- 
sent collection, 
and there is a large 
collection of sculp- 
ture and plastic 
work awaiting 
classification for 
exhibition pur- 
poses at the Trade 
Unions House. 

"Do I think 
the idea might be 
applied elsewhere ? 
I must confess 
that, with regard 
to the artistic endowments of English and 
American working men, I It el hardly qualified 
to speak ; but I think the main difficulty 
would lie in the development of the artistic 
temperament of the working classes through 
the absence of this .system of mine to 
which I have devoted my life. * My own 
wish would be to tike this exhibition of 
pictures as it stands, with cheap, rough 
frames or with none at all, to Ixmdon, and 
then to New York and other great American 
cities, to show the Anglo-Saxon race what 
can be done by the working classes." 


ExiniirT©Rgq)fia1vlE]rcHnT*G men's art, 



^.^* ' 

NY man 
years of 
age who 
tells you he is not 
afraid of an English 
butler lies. He may 
not show his fear. 
Outwardly he may be 
brave — aggressive 
even, perhaps to the 
extent of calling the 
great man " Here ! " 
or "Hi!" But in his 
heart, when he meets 
that cold, blue, intro- 
spective eye, he 

The effect that 
Keggs, the butler at 
the Keiths, had on 
Martin Rossiter was 

to make him feel as if he had been caught 
laughing in a cathedral. He fought against 
the feeling. He asked himself who Keggs 
was, anyway; and replied defiantly that Keggs 
was a Menial — and an overfed Menial. But 
all the while he knew that logic was useless. 

When the Keiths had invited him to their 
country home he had been delighted. They 
were among his oldest friends. He liked 
Mr. Keith. He liked Mrs. Keith. He loved 
Elsa Keith, and had done so from boyhood. 

But things had gone wrong. As he leaned 
out of his bedroom window at the end of the 
first week, preparatory to dressing for dinner, 
he was more than half inclined to make some 
excuse and get right out of the place next 
day. The bland dignity of Keggs had taken 
all the heart out of him. 

Nor was it Keggs alone who had driven 
his thoughts towards flight. Keggs was 
merely a passive evil, like toothache or a 
rainy day. What had begun actively to make 
the place impossible was a perfectly pesti- 
lential young man of the name of Barstowe. 

The house - party at the Keiths had 
originally been, from Martin's view*. point, 
almost ideal. The rest of the men were of 
the speechless, moustache - tugging breed. 
They had come to shoot, and they shot. 
When they were not shooting they congre- 
gated in the billiard-room and devoted their 
powerful intellects exclusively to snooker- 
pool, leaving Martin free to talk undisturbed 

Vol. xxx'ix.- 27- 

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f *VAU6^ 



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to Elsa. He had 
been doing this for 
five days with great 
contentment when 
Aubrey Barstowe 
arrived. Mrs. Keith 
had developed of late 
leanings towards cul- 
ture. In her town 
house a charge of 
small - shot, fired in 
any direction on a 
Thursday afternoon, 
could not have failed 
to bring down a 
poet, a novelist, or a 
painter. Aubrey 
Barstowe, author of 
"The Soul's Eclipse" 
and other poems, was 
a constant member 
of the crowd. A 
youth of insinuating 
manners, he had appealed to Mrs. Keith from 
the start ; and unfortunately the virus had 
extended to Elsa. Many a pleasant, sunshiny 
Thursday afternoon had been poisoned for 
Martin by the sight of Aubrey and Elsa 
together on a distant settee, matching 

The rest is too painful. It was a rout 
The poet did not shoot, so that when Martin 
retnrned of an evening his rival was about 
five hours of soul-to -soul talk up and only 
two to play. And those two, the after-dinner 
hours, which had once been the hours for 
which Martin had lived, were pure torture. 
So engrossed was he with his thoughts 
that the first intimation he had that he was 
not alone in the room was a genteel cough. 
Behind him, holding a small can, was Keggs. 
" Your 'ot water, sir," said the butler, 
austerely but not unkindly. 

Keggs was a man— one must use that 
word, though it seems grossly inadequate — 
of medium height, pigeon-toed at the base, 
bulgy half-way up, and bald at the apex. 
His manner was restrained and dignified, his 
voice soft and grave. 

But it was his eye that quelled Martin. 
That cold, blue, dukes-have-treated me-as-an- 
elder-brother eye. 

He fixed it upon him now, as he added, 
placing the can . on the floor, " It is 
Frederick's duly, but to-night I hundertook 

2 JO 


Martin had no answer. He was dazed 
Keggs had spoken with the proud humility 
of an em[>eror compiled by misfortune to 
shine shoes. 

11 Might I have a word with you, sir ? " 

" Ye-e-ss, yes," stammered Martin. 
"Won't you take a — I mean, yes, certainly." 

£ *It is perhaps a liberty/' began Keggs. 
He paused, and raked Martin with the eye 
that had rested on dining dukes. 

"Not at all," said Martin, hurriedly* 

" I should like," went on Keggs, bowing, 
"to speak to you on a somewhat intimate 
subject — Miss Elsa." 

Martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly, 

" You are going the wrong way to work, if 
you will allow me to say so, sir." 

Martin's jaw dropped another inch* 

« Wha-a " 

11 Women, sir," proceeded Keggs, " young 
ladies — are peculiar, I have had, if 1 may 

say so, certain hopjjortunities of observing 
their ways, Miss Elsa reminds me in some 
respects of Lady Angelica I i/ndall, whom I 
had the honour of knowing when 1 was butler 
to her father, Lord Stockleigh. Her lady- 
ship was hinclined to he romantic, She was 
fond of poetry, like Miss Elsa. She would 
sit by the hour, sir, listening to young Mr, 
Knox reading Tennyson, which was no part 
of his duties, he being employed by his lord 
ship to teach Ij>rd Bertie l^atin and Greek 
and what not. You may have noticed, sir, 
that young ladies is often took by Tennyson, 
hespecially in the summer time* Mr. Barstowe 
was reading Tennyson to Miss Elsa in the 
'all when I passed through just now. ' The 
Princess, 1 if I am not mistaken," 

" I don't know what the thing was," 
groaned Martin, " She seemed to be enjoy- 
ing it" 

" Lady Angelica was greatly addicted to 


ligitized by Google 


- — Qrigi ria tf r om — — — 



* The Princess.' Young Mr. Knox was 
reading portions of that poem to her when 
his lordship come upon them. Most rashly 
his lordship made a public hexpos£ and 
packed Mr. Knox off next day. It was not 
my place to volunteer hadvice, but I could 
have told him what would happen. Two 
days later her ladyship slips away to London 
early in the morning, and they're married at 
a registry- office. That is why I say that you 
are going the wrong way to work with Miss 
Klsa, sir. With certain types of 'igh-spirited 
young lady hopposition is useless. Now, 
when Mr. Barstowe was reading to Miss Elsa 
on the hoccasion to which I 'ave alluded, you 
was sitting by, trying to engage her attention. 
It's not the way, sir. You should leave them 
alone together. Let her see so much of him, 
and nobody helse but him, that she will grow 
lired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir, is 
very much like the whisky 'abit. You can't 
cure a man what has got that by hopposition. 
Now, if you will permit me to offer a word 
of advice, sir, I say, let Miss Elsa 'ave all 
the poetry she wants." 

Martin was conscious of but one coherent 
feeling at the conclusion of this address, and 
that was one of amazed gratitude. A lesser 
man who had entered his room and begun to 
discuss his private affairs would have had 
reason to retire with some speed ; but that 
Keggs should descend from his pedestal and 
interest himself in such lowly matters was a 
different thing altogether. 

" I'm very much obliged " he was 

stammering, when the butler raised a depre- 
catory hand. 

" My interest in the matter," he said, 
smoothly, "is not entirely haltruistic. For 
some years back, in fact since Miss Elsa 
came out, we have had a matrimonial sweep- 
stake in the servants' hall at each house- 
party. The names of the gentlemen in the 
party are placed in a hat and drawn in due 
course. Should Miss Elsa become engaged 
to any member of the party, the pool goes to 
the drawer of his name. Should no engage- 
ment occur, the money remains in my charge 
until the following year, when it is hadded to 
the new pool. Hitherto I have 'ad the 
misfortune to draw nothing but married 
gentlemen, but on this occasion I have 
secured you, sir. And I may tell you, 
sir," he added, with stately courtesy, 
"that, in the hopinion of the servants' 
hall, your chances are 'ighly fancied — 
very 'ighly. The pool has now reached 
considerable proportions, and, 'aving had 
certajn losses on the Turf very recent, I am 

hextremely anxious to win it. So I thought, 
if I might take the liberty, sir, I would place 
my knowledge of the sex at your disposal. 
You will find it sound in every respect. That 
is all. Thank you, sir." 

Martin's feelings had undergone a complete 
revulsion. In the last few minutes the butler 
had shed his wings and grown horns, cloven 
feet, and a forked tail. His rage deprived 
him of words. He could only gurgle. 

" Don't thank me, sir," said the butler, 
indulgently. " I ask no thanks. We are 
working together for a common hobject, and 
any little 'elp I can provide is given freely." 

"You old scoundrel!" shouted Martin, 
his wrath prevailing even against that blue 
eye. "You have the insolence to come to 
me and " 

He stopped. The thought of these 
hounds, these demons, coolly gossiping and 
speculating below stairs about Elsa, making 
her the subject of little sporting flutters to re- 
lieve the monotony of country life, choked him. 

" I shall tell Mr. Keith," he said. 

The butler shook his bald head gravely. 

" I shouldn't, sir. It is a 'ighly fantastic 
story, and I don't think he would believe it." 

"Then I'll Oh, get out!" 

Keggs bowed deferentially. 

"If you wish it, sir," he said, "I will 
withdraw. If I may make the suggestion, 
sir, I think you should commence to dress. 
Dinner will be served in a few minutes. 
Thank you, sir." 

He passed softly out of the room. 

It was more as a demonstration of defiance 
against Keggs than because he really hoj>ed 
that anything would come of it that Martin 
approached Elsa next morning after break- 
fast. Elsa was strolling on the terrace in 
front of the house with the bard, but Martin 
broke in on the conference with the dogged 
determination of a steam-drill. 

"Coming out with the guns to-day, Elsa?" 
he said. 

She raised her eyes. There was an absent 
look in them. 

" The guns ?*" she said. " Oh, no ; I hate 
watching men shoot." 

" You used to like it." 

" I used to like dolls," she said, impatiently. 

Mr. Barstowe gave tongue. He was a slim, 
tall, sickeningly beautiful young man, with 
large, dark eyes, full of expression. 

"We develop," he said. "The years go 
by, and we develop. Our souls expand — 
timidly at first, like little, half-fledged birds 
stealing out from the " 

2 12 


4i 1 don't know that Vm so set on shooting 
to-day, myself/' said Martin. " Will you 
come round the links ?" 

" I am going out in the motor with Mr* 
Barstowe/' said Elsa, 

"The motor!" cried Mr, Barstowe, "Ah, 
Rossi ter, that h the very poetry of motion. 
1 never ride in a motor-car without those 
words of Shakespeare's ringing in my mind : 

" ( The moan of doves in immemorial 
elms/ " quoted Mr. Barstowe, softly. 

" Only it happens to be a crow in a beech," 
said Martin, as the bird flew out 

Elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn* Martin 
turned on his heel and walked away. 

"It's the wrong way, sir; it's the wrong 
way," said a voice. " I was hobserving you 
from a window, sir. Its Lady Angelica over 

I - 


* I'll put a girdle round about the earth in 
forty minutes.' " 

" I shouldn't give way to that sort of thing 
if I were you/' said Martin. "The police are 
pretty down on road -hogging in these parts." 

"Mr. Barstowe was speaking figuratively/' 
said Elsa, with disdain. 

" Was he? "grunted Martin, whose sorrows 
were tending to make him every day more 
like a sulky schoolboy. "I'm afraid I haven't 
a poetic soul." 

" I'm afraid you haven't," said EUa, 

There was a brief silence. A bird made 
itself heard in a neighbouring tree. 

again. Hopposhion is useless, believe me, 
sir. 1 ' 

Martin faced round, flushed and wrathful* 
The butler went on, unmoved: "Miss Elsa 
is going for a ride in the car today, sir," 

" I know that." 

"Uncommonly tricky things, these motor- 
cars. I was saying so to Roberts, the 
chauffeur, just as soon as I 'card Miss Elsa 
was going out with Mr. Barstowe. I said, 
* Roberts, these cars is tricky ; break down 
when you're twenty miles from hanywhere as 

p?ng l^ft^fc^Ji^ *4Sft5Mil it would' be 



if the car should break down twenty miles 
from hanywhere to-day ! ' " 

Martin stared. 

"You bribed Roberts to " 

'* Sir I I gave Roberts the sovereign 
because I am sorry for him. He is a poor 
man, and has a wife and family to support." 

" Very well," said Martin, sternly ; " I 
shall go and warn Miss Keith." 

" Warn her, sir ! " 

"I shall tell her that you have bribed 
Roberts to make the car break down so 
that " 

Keggs shook his head. 

" I fear she would hardly credit the state- 
ment, sir. She might even think that you was 
trying to keep her from going for your own 
pussonal ends." 

" I believe you're the devil," said Martin. 

" I 'ope you will come to look on me sir," 
said Keggs, unctuously, "as your good hangel." 

Martin shot abominably that day, and, 
coming home in the evening gloomy and 
savage, went straight to his room, and did 
not reappear till dinner-time. Elsa had been 
taken in by one of the moustache-tuggers. 
Martin found himself seated on her other 
side. It was so pleasant to be near her, and 
to feel that the bard was away at the other 
end of the table, that for the moment his 
spirits revived. 

"Well, how did you like the ride?" he 
asked, with a smile. " Did you put that 
girdle round the world ? " 

She looked at him — once. The next 
moment he had an uninterrupted view of 
her shoulder, and heard the sound of her 
voice as she prattled gaily to the man on her 
other side. 

His heart gave a sudden bound. He 
understood now. The demon butler had 
had his wicked way. Good heavens ! She 
had thought he was taunting her ! He must 
explain at once. He 

" Hock or sherry, sir ? " 

He looked up into Keggs's expressionless 
eyes. The butler was wearing his on-duty 
mask. There was no sign of triumph in his 

" Oh, sherry. I mean hock. No, sherry. 

This was awful. He must put this right. 

" Elsa," he said. 

She was engrossed in her conversation 
with her neighbour. 

From down the table in a sudden lull in 
the talk came the voice of Mr. Barstowe. 
He seemed to be in the middle of a 

" Fortunately," he was saying, " I had with 
me a volume of Shelley, and one of my own 
little efforts. I had read Miss Keith the 
whole of the latter and much of the former 
before the chauffeur announced that it was 
once more possible " 

" Elsa," said the wretched man, " I had 
no idea — you don't think " 

She turned to him. 

" I beg your pardon ? " she said, very 

" I swear I didn't know— I mean, I'd 
forgotten — I mean " 

She wrinkled her forehead. 

" I'm really afraid I don't understand." 

"I mean, about the car breaking down." 

"The car? Oh, yes. Yes, it broke down. 
We were delayed quite a little while. Mr.. 
Barstowe read me some of his poems. It 
was perfectly lovely. I was quite sorry when 
Roberts told us we could go on again. But 
do you really mean to tell me, Mr. l^ambert, 
that you " 

And once more the world became all 

When the men trailed into the presence 
of the ladies for that brief seance on which 
etiquette insisted before permitting the 
stampede to the billiard-room Elsa was not 
to be seen. 

" Elsa ? " said Mrs. Keith in answer to 
Martin's question. " She has gone to bed. 
The poor child has a headache. I am afraid 
she had a tiring day." 

There was an early start for the guns next 
morning, and as Elsa did not appear at 
breakfast Martin had to leave without seeing 
her. His shooting was even worse than it 
had been on the previous day. 

It was not till late in the evening that the 
party returned to the house. Martin, on the 
way to his room, met Mrs. Keith on the 
stairs. She appeared somewhat agitated. 

" Oh, Martin," she said, " I'm so glad you're 
back. Have you seen anything of Elsa?" 


" Wasn't she with the guns ? " 

" With the guns ? " said Martin, puzzled. 
" No." 

" I have seen nothing of her all day. I'm 
getting worried. I can't think what can 
have happened to her. Are you sure she 
wasn't with the guns ? " 

" Absolutely certain. Didn't she come in 
to lunch?" 

" No. Tom," she said, as Mr. Keith came 
up, "I'm so worried about Elsa. I haven't 
seen her all day. I thought she must be 
out with the guns." 



Mr. Keith was a man who had built up a 
large fortune mainly by consistently refusing 
to allow anything to agitate him. He 
carried this policy into private life. 

u Wasn't she in at lunch ? " he asked, 

" I tell you I haven't seen her all day. 
She breakfasted in her room " 


" Yes. She was tired, poor girl." 

"If she breakfasted late," said Mr. Keith, 
" she wouldn't need any lunch. She's gone 
for a stroll somewhere." 

" Would you put back dinner, do you 
think ?" inquired Mrs. Keith, anxiously. 

" I am not good at riddles," said Mr. Keith, 
comfortably, " but I can answer that one. I 
would not put back dinner. I would not put 
back dinner for the King." 

Elsa did not come back for dinner. Nor 
was hers the only vacant place. Mr. Barstowe 
had also vanished. Even Mr. Keith's calm 
was momentarily ruffled by this discovery. 
The poet was not a favourite of his — it was 
only reluctantly that he had consented to his 
being invited at all ; and the presumption 
being that when two members of a house- 
party disappear simultaneously they are likely 
to be spending the time in each other's 
society, he was annoyed. Elsa was not the 
girl to make a fool of herself, of course, 

but He was unwontedly silent at 


Mrs. Keith's anxiety displayed itself dif- 
ferently. She was frankly worried, and men- 
tioned it. By the time the fish had been 
reached conversation at the table had fixed 
itself definitely on the one topic. 

" It isn't the car this time, at any rate," 
said Mr. Keith. " It hasn't been out to-day." 

" I cant understand it," said Mrs. Keith 
for the twentieth time. And that was the 
farthest point reached in the investigation of 
the mystery. 

By the time dinner was over a spirit of 
unrest was abroad. The company sat about 
in uneasy groups. Snooker-pool was, if not 
forgotten, at any rate shelved. Somebody 
suggested search-parties, and one or two of 
the moustache-tuggers wandered rather aim- 
lessly out into the darkness. 

Martin was standing in the porch with 
Mr. Keith when Keggs approached. As his 
eyes lit on him, Martin was conscious of a 
sudden solidifying of the vague suspicion 
which had been forming in his mind. And 
yet that suspicion seemed so wild. How 
could Keggs, with the worst intentions, have 
h?d anything to do with this? He could 

not forcibly have abducted the missing pair 
and kept them under lock and key. He 
could not have stunned them and left them 
in a ditch. Nevertheless, looking at him 
standing there in his attitude of deferential 
dignity, with the light from the open door 
shining on his bald head, Martin felt per- 
fectly certain that he had in some mysterious 
fashion engineered the whole thing. 

" Might I have a word, sir, if you are at 
leisure ? " 

"Well, Keggs?" 

" Miss Elsa, sir." 

" Yes ? " 

Keggs's voice took on a sympathetic soft- 

" It was not my place, sir, to make any 
remark while in the dining-rcom, but I could 
not 'elp but hoverhear the conversation. I 
gathered from remarks that was passed that 
you was somewhat hat a loss to account for 
Miss Elsa's non-appearance, sir." 

Mr. Keith laughed shortly. 

" You gathered that, eh ? " 

Keggs bowed. 

" I think, sir, that possibly I may be hable 
to throw light on the matter." 

" What ! " cried Mr. Keith. " Great Scot, 
man ! then why didn't you say so at the time ? 
Where is she? " 

" It was not my place, sir, to henter into 
the conversation of the dinner-table," said 
the butler, with a touch of reproof. "If I 
might speak now, sir?" 

Mr. Keith clutched at his forehead. 

" Heavens above ! Do you want a signed 
permit to tell me where my daughter is? 
Get on, man, get on ! " 

" I think it 'ighly possible, sir, that Miss 
Elsa and Mr. Barstowe may be on the hisland 
in the lake, sir." 

About half a mile from the house was a 
picturesque strip of water, some fifteen 
hundred yards in width and a little less in 
length, in the centre of which stood a small 
and densely wooded island. It was a favourite 
haunt of visitors at the house when there was 
nothing else to engage their attention, but 
during the past week, with shooting to fill up 
the days, it had been neglected. 

"On the island?" said Mr, Keith. "What 
put that idea into your head ? " 

" I 'appened to be rowing on the lake this 
morning, sir. I frequently row of a morning, 
sir, when there are no duties to detain me in 
the 'ouse. I find the hexercise hadmirable for 
the 'ealth. I walk brisklv to the boat-'ouse, 

"VcHNpHfY^^ICHIIiAJtl schedule of 



your daily exer- 
cises. Out out 
the athletic remi- 
niscences and 

come to the 
point' 1 

11 Ai I was row- 
ing on the lake 
this morning, sir, 
I 'appened to see 
a boat 'itched up 
to a tree on the 
hisland. I think 
that possibly Miss 
lilsa and Mr. 
Uarstowe might 
'ave taken a row 
out there. Mr. 
Bars to we would 
wish to see the 
hisland, sir, bein* 

"But you say 
you saw the boat 
there this morn- 

"Yes, sir." 

"Well, it 
doesn't take all 
day to explore a 
small island. 
What's kept them 
ail this while?" 

" It is possible, 
sir, that the rope 
might not have 
'eld. Mr. Bar- 
stowe, if I might 
say so, sir, is one 
of those him- 


petuous literary 

pussons, and possibly he horn it ted to see 
that the knot was hadequately tied. Or" — 
[lis eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a 
moment on Martin's — "some party might 
'ave come along and h untied it a-puppus." 

"Untied it on purpose?" said Mr. Keith, 
"What on earth for?" 

Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as 
one who, realizing his limitations, declines to 
attempt to probe the hidden sources of human 

" I thought it right, sir, to let you know," 
he said. 

"Right? I should say so. If Lisa has 
been kept starving all day on that island by 

that longhaired Here, come along, 


He d&shed off excitedly into the night. 

Martin remained for a moment gazing fixedly 
at the butler. 

"I 'ope, sir," said Keggs, cordially, "that 
my bin format ion will prove of genuine 
ha ssi stance." 

" Do you know what I should like to do to 
you?" said Martin, slowly. 

11 1 think I 'ear Mr. Keith calling you, 

" I should like to take you by the scruff of 
your neck and n 

"There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? 
Quite distinct it was." 

Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of 
blank futility. What could you do with a 
man Hk^^M&?£J ^fff s '^ e quarrelling with 



respectfully. "I think Mr. Keith must have 
met with so mo haccident." 

His surmise proved correct. When Martin 
came up he found his host seated on the 
ground in evident pain, 

11 Twisted my ankle in a hole," he explained, 
briefly. "Give me an arm back to the house, 
there's a good fellow, and then run on down 
to the lake and see if what Keggs said is 

Martin did as requested— so far, that 
is to say, as the fust half of the com- 
mission was concerned. As regarded the 
second, he took it upon himself to make 
certain changes. Having seen Mr. Keith to 
his room, he put the fitting-out of the relief 
ship into the hands or a group of his fellow- 
guests whom he discovered in the porch, 
Elsa's feeling towards her rescuer might be 
one of unmixed gratitude ; but it might, on 
the other hand, be one of resentment. He 
did not wish her to connect him in her mind 
with the episode in any w T ay whatsoever* 
Marl in had once released a dog from a trap, 
and the dog had bitten him. He had been 
on an errand of mercy, but the dog had 
connected him with his sufferings and acted 
accordingly. It occurred to Martin that 
Elsa's frame of mind would be uncommonly 
like that dog's. 

The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a 
cigarette, and waited in the porch* 

It seemed a very Umy lime before anything 
happened, but at Inst, as he was lighting his 
fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness 
the sound of voices. They drew nearer. 
Someone shouted ; — 

"It's all right. UVve found them." 
Martin threw away his cigarette and went 

Elsa Keiih sal up as her mother came 
into the room. Two nights and a day 
had passed since she had taken to her 

"How are you feeling to-day, dear?" 

11 Has he gone, mother?" 


"Mr. Barstowe." 

"Yes, dear. He left this morning. He 
said he had business with his publisher in 

"Then I can get up," said Elsa, thank- 

(1 I think you're a little hard on poor Mr. 
Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an accident, you 
know. It was not his fault that the boat 
slipped away." 

"It was, it was, it was!" cried Elsa, 
thumping the pillow malignantly. "I believe 
he did it on purpose, so that he could read 
me his horrid poetry without my having a 
chance to escape. I believe that's the only 
way he can get people to listen to it," 

1 i.i 



Grkjm af from 



44 But you used to like it, darling. You 
said he had such a musical voice." 

"Musical voice!" The pillow became a 
shapeless heap. " Mother, it was like a night- 
mare ! If I had seen him again I should 
have had hysterics. It was awful 1 If he 
had been even the least bit upset himself I 
think I could have borne up. But he enjoyed 
it ! He revelled in it ! He said it was 
like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and 
Shelley's l Epipsychidion,' whatever that is ; 
and he prattled on and on and read and 
read and read till my head began to split. 
Mother" — her voice sank to a whisper— " I 
hit him ! " 

" Elsa ! " 

" I did ! " she went on, defiantly. " I hit 
him as hard as I could, and he — he" — she 
broke off into a little gurgle of laughter — " he 
tripped over a bush and fell right down ; and 
I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn't think it 
unladylike or anything. I was just as proud 
as I could be. And it stopped him talking." 

"But, Elsa, dear! Why?" 

"The sun had just gone down ; and it was 
a lovely sunset, and the sky looked like a 
great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and 
I said so to him, and he said, sniffily, that he 
was afraid he didn't see the resemblance 
And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And 
he said no, because as a rule all that he 
needed was a little ripe fruit. And that was 
when I hit him." 

44 Elsa ! " 

u Oh, 1 know it was awfully wrong, but I 
just had to. And now I'll get up. It looks 
lo\ely out.'* 

Martin had not gone out with the guns 
that day. Mrs. Keith had assured him that 
there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she 
was only tired, but he was anxious, and had 
remained at home, where bulletins could 
reach him. As he was returning from a 
stroll in the grounds he heard his name 
called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock 
under the trees near the terrace. 

" Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the 
guns ? " she said. 

"I wanted to be on the spot so that I 
could hear how you were." 

" How nice of you ! Why don't you sit 

"May I?" 

Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine. 

"You know, you're a very restful person, 

Martin. You're so big and outdoory. How 

would you like to read to me for awhile? 

I feel so lazy." 

Martin took the magazine. 
Vol. xxmx.— 2a 

" What shall I read ? Here's a poem 
by " 

Elsa shuddered. 

" Oh, please, no," she cried. " I couldn't 
bear it. I'll tell you what 1 should love — the 
advertisements. There's one about sardines. 
I started it, and it seemed splendid. It's at 
the back somewhere." 

" Is this it — Langley and Fielding's 
sardines ? " 

"That's it?" 

Martin began to read. 

" ' Langley and Fielding's sardines. When 
you want the daintiest, most delicious sardines, 
go to your grocer and say, " Langley and 
Fielding's, please!" You will then be sure of 
having the finest Norwegian smoked sardines, 
packed in the purest olive oil.' " 

Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a 
soft smile of pleasure curving her mouth. 

" Go on," she said, dreamily. 

" * Nothing nicer,' " resumed Martin, with 
an added touch of eloquence as the theme 
began to develop, " * for breakfast, lunch, or 
supper. Probably your grocer stocks them. 
Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Price 
fivepence per tin. The best sardines and 
the best oil!'" 

" Isn't it lovely 7 " she murmured. 

Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He 
held it. She opened her eyes. 

44 Don't stop reading," she said. " I never 
heard anything so soothing." 

44 Elsa ! " 

He bent towards her. She smiled at him. 
Her eyes were dancing. 

44 Elsa, I~ " 

44 Mr. Keith," said a quiet voice, " desired 
me to say " 

Martin started away. He glared up 
furiously. Gazing down upon them stood 
Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a 
gentle benevolence. 

ki Mr. Keith desired me to say that he 
would be glad if Miss Elsa would come and 
sit with him for a while." 

" I'll come at once," said Elsa, stepping 
from the hammock. 

The butler bowed respectfully and turned 
away. They stood watching him as he 
moved across the terrace. 

44 What a saintly old man Keggs looks/ 1 
said Elsa. " Don't you think so? He looks 
as if he had never even thought of doing 
anything he shouldn't. 1 wonder if he 
ever has ? " 

44 1 wonder ! " said Martin. 

44 He looks like a stout angel— what were 

> ou fflfe&S^ tflmkteif ame up ? " 

The Best Hunting Story. 


I-RKWITH we present a 
budget of hunting jests and 
anecdotes, some of which 
have been received from mas- 
ters of foxhounds and leading 
hunting men, lo whom we 
recently addressed the question, MVhat is 
your favourite hunting story ? '' 

Such a collection as that m the present 
article is unique, and deserves to be utilized 
by the future historian of our contemporary 
minds and manners and pastimes, and, it 
may be added, taste in humour. The chief 
hunting men in the kingdom, including 
many of the nobility, may be represented as 
foregathered around the festive board and 
each delivering himself of the wittiest jtu 
iPesprit he can remember The whole col lee- 
tion is pervaded by the very spirit and esse nee 

of the splendid spurt so dear lo the heart of 
the celebrated Mr. Jorrocks 

** On one occasion, when I was a boy/ 
writes the Mastkr ok thk (Jk.uton Fox- 
hol'nijs, " I was out with the Herefordshire 
pack. Old Bob Ward, who was hunting that 
day, had a very low opinion of Cockney 
sportsmen, and on this occasion i: was 
strongly confirmed. He turned and reproved 
one of them for riding over turnips, 

Ui Turnips? 5 cried the individual, in an 
aggrieved tone, 'How should I know they 
were turnips, unless there was a boiled leg 
o' mutton in the middle of cm ?* 

44 I have heard," continues this popular 
M.KH., **u great many stories concerning 
the wonderful scent of hounds, but one 
instance beats anything in my recollection. 

Hajcui v Kinn. — Ira-ujiljJt- Sportsman (toman Ln brook): "OjiifoiutiJ >uu f *ir ! What thcdeLict: lU y*m mean by bobbing vp 
ike that iJiid jii;*Jv[n>; my hor..*c rrfu-*r7" 

i liff jrmiUitwN, «/ Jieur*. Fore* it (V 1 






iliy pertM9>iQi* «/ Jus in, Font A i."-.- 


One morning the hunt completely lost sight 
of the fox. I saw a man running across a 
field of turnips, apparently furnished with 
the information concerning Reynard .we 
sought, so I shouted out to him : — 

1E l Have you seen the fox ? J 

%I * Eh ? f called the man, stopping short. 

" ' Have you seen the fox ? ' 

ut Fox? Oh, yezzer, I seen ? e.' 

lM Good!' I cried, ready to start off 
on the instant full gallop. i Where did 
he go ? ■ 

14 ' Up turmuts, zur.' 

"As I put spurs to my horse, I asked : — 

" ' How long ago ? ' 

li ' Last Zunday be a week, zur, 

" Could any hounds have been paid a 
higher compliment ? a 

Concerning " The Second Horse," which 
forms a theme for Mr, Torn Browne's most 
humorous hunting picture, Colonel S, 
Possonby writes : — 

"The best story of the kind I remember 
was about an Irish boy who had been taken 
from a racing stable, and who knew nothing 
about his new duties. At a critical moment 
in the chase he suddenly spurred on his 

animal, passing his master, who was waiting 
for him to come up + 

" ' Hi, you fool ! * called out the master, 

* what are you doing with that second horse ? ' 

ut l)ivil a second at all, at all I' roared 
the bo>\ * I give yer a start, and, begorra, 
when I rides 1 rides to win ! ? Which shows 
the danger of confusing two different equine 

Thk Master of the Wiltshire Fox- 
hounds : — 

" We have all heard of the hunting man 
who cares nothing for the fox, but only for 
the fences. I once knew a rider of this 
kind who, when anyone would speak of a 
certain pack of hounds, * would exclaim, 

* Hang the hounds I How are the fences? 1 
They couldn^t be too high for him, so upon 
one occasion his enemies determined to give 
him full satisfaction. They put up a special 
fence to baulk him, which the rest of the 
hunt, who were iri the joke, avoided, think- 
ing, of course, this time he would have to go 
round. By and by word came to say that 

Colonel D was hanging in mid-air in a 

certain held. Several hurried back and 
found his horse lying dead, caught helplessly 




on the top of the high fence. They took 
htm down, and the doctor discovered three 
ribs broken, When he was able to talk he 
said, l I took that fence, I suppose Pve 
got a piece or two of it in my chest, haven't 
I, doctor? I know, of course, I didn't clear 
it ; but if anything happens to me, doctor, 
you'll explain that they found me hanging 
on thtfar side ! T " 

D« S, Hartwkll, M.F.H., Kssex :- 
" A hunting man of City extraction, with 
pretensions to high art, once employed a 
Royal Academician to paint his favourite 
hunter. Thereafter he gave his friends no 
peace* Every time he saw one of them he 

Mr. T. G. Bolitho : — 

u There was once an amateur hunting man, 
who had never followed the hounds before, 
who got miserably lost and into all sorts of 
difficulties. The pack and the last hunter 
got clean away from him, and bruised and 
torn he ambled along inquiring of every stray 
passer-by if they had seen the pack. Fortu- 
nately, he was not entirely without consolation 
in the shape of a small flask he carried in his 
pocket. When at last he met two gentlemen 
on horseback he stopped them and, almost 
maudlin in his despair, murmured : — 

^ ■ Excuse me, gentlemen, but you do not 
happen— to have -a couple— of hounds about 
you, do you ? ' n 

On ink \Vw Mi i kom mi Iw i ■■!■ Mi N ki I <>i Muniit.-s: ,h Wh.n .. pitj the bounds lei thai tpli idid 

stag gtn away, C*]nrid, w^ii't it? 1 ' _ _ m 

i uIoikj] : " Pily i Ha, if limy M -inly taken my advice \vr should have been up with him now, insttr:irl of l*uig links away on 
ibe wrung, Hack 1 " 

\tiet f tt*ltittd bit *t+fiitl iirtinittiutt t*f tht I*rv}trittwt of " Punth,"i 


would begin, * Oh, did I tell you I've had 
my horse painted ? 3 At last, the rumour 
ran that a famous Duke was coming over to 
take part in the hunt, mid old Jorroeks was 
keen on showing off his art knowledge before 
his Grace. The first chance he had when 
they rode together he, therefore, promptly 
opened fire. 

4i ' liy the way, your Grace, I've 'ad my 
'orse painted/ 

"The Duke stuck his glass in his eye and 
Stared at the animal supporting Jorrocks, 

" * No ? Not really ? 1 >idn 3 t notice it, 
Thought the colour odd, but capital idea|{Q 
keep out the rain.' J1 

capital idea to 

Colonel Wbay, Oxfordshire :— 
11 The best story I ever heard was that of 
a discharged whipper-in who maliciously 
seized the old M.F.HA favourite cat, dressed 
him up in a fox's skin, and let the desperate 
animal loose in a field just in front of the 
hounds. The MJ\H. ;md the others caught 
sight of the scudding fox, and at once sent 
up a yell All thought they were in at the 
death, but for some strange reason the 
hounds refused to kill. In vain the hunts- 
man called to the liuimtK who were off again 
— the pseudo fox stood at bay and finally, to 
the consternation of *lu party, shot up a 
n,-ighbq^ €R ^fI$p MgflHP.tfKa his eyes. 


22 r 

" 'Where the dickens is that fox gone ?' 

" s Upa tree, sir.' 

£t 'Up a tree! Why, you fools, we've 
struck a giant squirrel. Its a squirrel, I tell 
you, and we've been done/ 

"'No, sir/ said a huntsman; 'it's a fox 
right enough. 1 can see his taiL' 

** "Tail be hanged! 5 cried the squire, 
putting his ear close to the tree ; * k\ his 
other end's troubling me. I've just heard 
that fox mew, and I'm going home ! ? 

"And although they wanted to cut the 
tree down, the old M + RH. had had enough 
and turned his horse homeward, and the 
discharged whipper-in had a most ample 
revenge. 5 ' 

Mk, P. F, Montagv, of Melton 
Mowbray : — 

1 Foxes were very rare in our county one 
season, when a report reached a member of 
the hunt that a plump vixen and her brood 
had taken up its quarters in a half-ruined 
abbey at a place I will call Blaxley, It was 
resolved that the gentleman should set out 
with a party to lay hands 
on the cubs for the forth- 
coming season. When they 
reached the abbey, which 
had for some time been 
without a tenant, they were 
met by a cross ■ looking 
woman in the yard, who 
asked them what they 
wanted. Thinking she was 
the care taker j they ex- 
plained their errand. 

" k If you are fox-hunters/ 
said she, 'you will please 
leave these premises as 
quickly as you came into 
them. I have taken these 
premises on a long lease, 
and, as I am totally op- 
posed to so cruel a sport, 1 
warn you that I will not 
have a foot of my land 
ridden over/ 

The leader of the depu- 
tation tried to reason with 
her, and was about to ex 
plain respecting the vixen 
and her cubs, when a light 
bursr in upon him and, 
realising that he and his 
companions had been the 
victims of a practical joke, 
they stole quietly home- 
wards on another quest." 

Major I). R, Richardson', of the i) join 
Hunt :— 

"It is related of a certain City personage 
who had taken enthusiastically to country 
sport, and especially to fox hunting, that, 
noticing a striking-looking individual at the 
meet, he asked his mentor who he was, 

"'Oh/ was the response, 'he's a VX. 
Would you like me to introduce you ? * 

* g * No fear ! ' said the City gent. ' No 
veterinary surgeons for me until I regularly 
'as to *aye em, h ' 

"Our master/ 1 writes the Master of the 
Wkst Kknt Hint, 4( had a ^reat fond 
ness for giving high -sounding names to the 
occupants of his kennels. Every dog in one 
of his packs was called after the heroes of the 
First Empire : Napoleon Bonaparte, Talley- 
rand, Marshal Davoust, Marshal Ney, Mar- 
shal Soult, and so forth. Another was Julius 
Caesar ; another, Charlemagne. After one 
day's hunt he was recounting their exploits 
to a stranger who was stopping at the Hall. 

" i Napoleon Bonaparte,* said he, * worked 

Thk Nmv Act.- Fir?*L Sen mi] Hoffman : " J wi>h I wa* out ufthi*! 1 * 
Stroud S. H< (Irkh): '* iSedad, ye imhi'i be lung : And it's, ji pound a week for lift if 
ye re kilt \ " 



with a will, while Mark Antony and the Duke 
of Wellington were as keen as mustard. As 
to Marshal Bernadotte' — and he was pro- 
ceeding to relate their individual exploits 
when his guest interrupted by asking : — 

" 4 But which killed the fox ? ' 

44 The M.F.H. changed colour 

44 * Oh, as to that/ he answered, somewhat 
confusedly, * that was done by a wretched 
cur named Towscr, who had got into the pack 
by mistake/ " 

T. F. Harrison, M.F.H., Hertfordshire : — 

" A hunting man of the old school — one 
who lived for hunting — once became so 
depleted in funds that to maintain his pack 
at all he had first to sell his timber, then 
mortgage his land and house, and finally 
began actually to part with his furniture. 
One day he decided that his wife's grand 
piano was superfluous. 

44 ' But, John, dear,' said his wife, tearfully, 
4 there'll be no music.' 

44 4 No music V cried the zealous fox-hunter. 
4 Why, confound it, Maria, if you'll gi' your 
consent, I'll chain up the pack in the drawing- 
room, and yell hear the finest music ye ever 
heard in all your life ! ' " 

" During a very fast and straight gallop in 
Leicestershire," writes an ex- Master of 
the Queen's County Hunt, "a rider was 
observed walking his horse leisurely down a 
field towards a stiff fence, holding a shoe in 
his hand. 

44 4 What's the matter ? ' hailed a passing 
friend. * Why don't you screw him at it ? ' 

44 A sorrowful shake of the head, with the de- 
monstration of the shoe, was the only answer. 

44 4 Why, my good fellow/ observed a too 
curious third party, * your horse has got four 
s/ioes on ! ' " 

44 A good story," writes the M.F.H., South 
I )evon, 44 is told of the celebrated huntsman 
Simpelty, of Dartmoor fame. 

44 Scene: A fox run to ground in a bank. 
Simpelty struggling at 4 the earth.' 

44 Simpelty: 4 Who's that pricking me with 
a fuzz bush ? ' 

44 Farmer : 4 There's nobody pricking you 
with a fuzz bush, Mr. Simpelty.' 

44 Simpelty (feeling behind him with his 
hand): 4 Dashed if I haven't been sitting 
on my spurs ! ' " 

The Master of the South Shrop- 
shire Foxhounds sends the following : — 
"The story goes of an old admiral who 

had taken to fox-hunting, amongst whose 
eccentricities it was to indulge perpetually in 
nautical language in the field. You could 
hear him bellowing out, * Larboard, there ! ' or 
4 Starboard, you fool ! ' * Hard-a-port and we'll 
run him down ! ' with all sorts of such jargon. 
There was one eminent follower who did not 
relish all this, and one day, when the admiral 
had come a cropper and fell behind the fox 
duly met his death before he could recover 
the lost ground. Seeing the gentlemen dis- 
mounted and not quite grasping the situation, 
the belated party roared : — 

44 * Which way did he go — larboard or 
starboard ? ' 

44 4 1 don't know/ was the frigid answer. 

44 4 Don't know — don't knotv ! Haven't 
you got eyes in your head — eh, what ? Come, 
larboard or starboard ? ' 

44 4 Don't know, you salt-water maniac, and 
don't care. All I do know is,' he called, as he 
pulled the brush out of his pocket and the 
rest of the hunt came up, 4 that he's lost his 
rudder ! ? " 

A Follower of the Quorn sends us the 
annexed : — 

44 The visitor's eye was struck by the four 
heads, the products of the taxidermist's art, 
beautifully mounted, over the mantelpiece. 
His host noticed his glance of admiration. 

44 4 Rather pretty, eh ? ' 

44 4 Beautiful ! I hear you are a most 
enthusiastic sportsman.' 

44 4 Oh, I have a weakness for fox-hunting. 
Splendid sport ! Those 44 masks " there are 
souvenirs of the four most exciting runs of 
my life. Every one of 'em has a history. 
Like to hear about 'em ? ' He passed a box 
of choice Havanas and the guest disposed 
himself to listen. 

44 4 I'll begin with the far one,' said his 
host, with a far-away look in his eye. 4 That 
brings me to a famous run with the Pytchley 
in the autumn of '94 — or was it '95 ?' And 
he proceeded to relate a most exciting 
adventure, and then another and another, 
winding up with the story of the fox whose 
carcass he had dragged from the hounds 
of the Worcestershire Hunt in order to 
present to his sweetheart, who alone was 
with him at the kill. His sweetheart died, 
bequeathing him the trophy, and so he had 
remained single. It was a long story, and 
when his host had finished the visitor arose 
and examined the beautiful heads anew. 

44 4 Wonderful, wonderful ! ' he murmured. 
4 1 never knew anything so interesting/ 

44 4 Really?' said the other, complacently. 




" When his guest was 
ready to go, he followed 
him out in the hall and 
helped him on with his 

41 * The more I think of 
those fox -heads of yours 
the more I am inclined to 
regard their history as the 
most remarkable thing I 
have ever heard 
life. Do you 

' 44 No Why?' 

11 * Because - well, be- 
cause they happtn to be 
wolves' ! ' " 

in my 

k n o w 

Mr, Dun - Waters, 
M.F.H,, Whaddon :— 

"It has long been the 
custom to refer to indif- 
ferent performers in the 
hunting - held as 4 tailors/ 
precisely for what reason 
I never could discover. 
Only once have I en- 
countered a real member 
of the sartorial fraternity 
behind the hounds, and he 
was a match for many of 
the others. The M.RIL 
once accosted him 
furiously : — 

14 * Don't you see/ he 
cried, ' you're riding over 
sown grass ? J 

M< Eh ?' called the 
offender, keeping along a 

s< ' I say — sown grass — 
sown gra-a-a-ss, you 
wretched tailor 1 ' 

"'Hand-sewn or machine-stitched? 
the rejoinder. * As long as I 




seams, don't you worry 

ride up 

the others had 

fox r * 

to put up with the poor little 

Colon e J . G a k h att, M . F. H . : — 

"At a hunt breakfast someone was relating 
the exploits of a couple of hard riders in the 
presence of a fair American. 

44 'Why, those two men had the hounds all 
to themselves/ 

" 'What utter selfishness ! ' she burst forth, 
indignantly and innocently; 'and I suppose 

M.RH., Shropshire: — 

"The shooting tenant was suspected to be 
a good deal more addicted to his gun than 
his saddle, so that, when there was a second 
blank draw on the estate, there was a hitter 
feeling of disappointment. 

" 4 I'm sure 1 can't understand/ he mur- 
mured, * where the deuce my foxes can be/ 

" 4 Dunno, sir/ spoke up a huntsman, 
' unless your pheasants ? ave ate 'em up ! J ' 

by Google 

Original from 


HF morning, to Perrin, had 
been just like other mornings. 
He had set out for the office 
at the same time, by the same 
way, with the same unending 
absence of hope. And, with it 
all, there was the newer, the more poignant 
self-reproach — the sense of shame and failure 
at the sight of his brilliantly-clever son. 

The horror of his inability to send the boy 
to a University, to help him to a career, was 
the obsession of the father's domestic life. 
Only at the office, hemmed in with red-tape 
and all-absorbing routine, could Perrin forget. 
At home, sitting opposite to the handsome, 
intellectual, proud-faced boy, who was the 
apple of his eye, he remembered always. 
He felt like a murderer, like a man who 
must kill the thing he loves. Neither work 
nor self-denial could avail. Promotion was 
hopeless ; his resources were long since run 
dry. In less than a month the boy would 
have to take up a clerkship in the local 
branch of Boyd's Bank. There, without 
influence, without inclination, would be, for 
Francis Perrin, the end. 

Perrin himself was a deadhead : one of 
the host of official " passed-overs " with 
which the Civil Service abounds. Not that 
he was a fool or a sluggard. Far from it. 
But he had once been a rebel, and he was 
paying the penalty now. 

In the early, graceless 
days of the Post Office 
Savings Bank, that institu- 
tion was not the perfect 
piece of mechanism that it 
has since become. To 
put it mildly, it was run 
on easy, wasteful, and, for 
the staff, too comfortable 
lines. The Postmaster - 
General of the minute got 
wind of the truth. He 
found a strong man and 
sent him to put things straight. The strong 
man fulfilled his task. 

There were rows, there were meetings, 
there were battles, open and pitched. But 
the strong man always won. And when, 
one day, a band of stalwarts (amongst 
whom was Perrin) refused, point blank, to 
work overtime, they were suspended, promptly 
and sans phrase. 

The stalwarts, one and all, were reinstated. 
It was thought judicious to overlook their 
offence. But there are, in the Civil Service, 
such things as black-books ; and suspension 
on a man's record looks bad. Perrin, who 
had just taken a wife, felt that he was shelved. 
By way of protest, he put in an application 
for a postmastership. To his surprise, he was 
given Belboro— for the strong man knew what 
he was about. And at Belboro — though, 
thanks to its growing reputation as a spa, the 
salary had increased — Perrin took official root. 
His family also increased, out of all propor- 
tion to his emoluments. If it had not been 
for the devotion of his wife, who stuck to 
him like a good woman and a true, he must 
have gone under long ago. 

Before starting for the office Perrin had 
run upstairs to say good bye to his wife. She 
was in bed that morning, for, in spite of her 
splendid constitution, she was utterly fagged 
out, and Perrin waj> desperately anxious about 

her hea^ VERS |TY of MICHIGAN 




As he came into the room Mrs. Perrin 
lifted her head from the pillow. She was a 
little woman with hlue eyes, curiously bright 
beneath dark brows, and a nose that was 
almost Okie in its curve- She had been 
really pretty when Perrin married her, and 
even now her prettiness was faded rather 
than gone. In an evening frock she looked 
a young woman still. 

Perrin stooped flown and kissed her, clasp- 
ing her to him, holding her close* Her 
hand took his a moment and pressed it, but 
she said nothing. 

Perrin sat down at his desk at the office. 
The weekly Official Circular faced him, and 
at the side were a number of foolscap 
envelopes, long, yellow, and fat, Perrin 
took up the Official Circular and read. 
The list of promotions and vacancies was 
on the front page. Hopelessly — though, 
for all his disappointments, he had never 

VoL xx mm.— 29 

ceased to apply— he began to read. The 
first announcement made him put down the 
paper with a pang. His brother — his young 
brother — had got another step. He had 
been made a district surveyor, and would 
have a district with four counties and fifty 
postmasters like Perrin under his charge. 

Perrin leaned back in his chair. Angry and 
bitter thoughts chased across his brain. The 
nrar relationship of the successful nun subbed 
him to the heart, quickening his sense of 
failure, driving him to a new and jealous grief. 

Then, suddenly t be became himself again. 
His early training, the sporting instinct which, 
through all his troubles, had never wholly 
died s leaped up once more in this the bitterest 
moment of his life. He forced himself to 
smile, he... compelled himself to be just, 
u Hang iWH^Ws aft'lSps whispered ; "hang 
it aUJ'JMfteH"^^ He has stuck 

to his job. lie never went off the rails ! " 



Pen-in caught up his pen. It was a letter 
of congratulation that he was going to write. 

"My dear George," he began. "Just a 
line to send you my hearty congratulations 
on your well-deserved promotion. I " 

He stopped for a moment, pondering the 
phrase. But, somehow or other, it eluded 
him. Mechanically he caught up the Circular 
and glanced at it once more. His eyes strayed 
down the fortunate list, which, till then, he 
had not troubled wholly to look through. 
What he saw made him jump from his chair. 

" Mr. A. J. Perrin, Postmaster of Belboro, 
to be Postmaster of Murcester." 

At first he did not believe. He thought 
that his eyes had tricked him, that it was 
some disorder of his reeling brain. He stood 
up; he spelled out the words; he repeated 
them over and over again. The sound of 
his voice assured him. He was not mad. 
It was true. Promotion had come at last; 
and a good promotion, too. "Frank — Frank 
can go to the University " ; that was his first 

He remembered writing the application ; 
he had asked for Camford on the same day. 
Camford — where his boy could live at home 
and yet get a degree — had been beyond his 
wildest dreams. But Murcester was good 
enough. With a pinch, with his wife's help, 
he could educate them all. First Frank ; 
then the younger ones as well. It was 
victory— victory at last, after twenty years of 
terrible defeat. 

He snatched a new sheet ; his pen flew 
furiously across its blue page. He was on 
fire to get the news to his wife. 

"My dear, my dear, it's come at last. 
They've forgotten, they've forgiven, or they've 
overlooked. I've got Murcester, and Frank 
won't be a bank-clerk after all. We shall 
have to be careful — desperately careful. But 
it's another hundred pounds, and the pension 
will be bigger, too. Besides, who knows now 
whether 1 may not go higher still?" 

He folded the paper up, covered it, wrote 
the address. But before he fastened the 
envelope he pulled out the paper again and 
added a postscript. " My dear, my very 
dear, I am half out of my mind with joy." 
For the long and hopeless struggle had made 
Perrin, once a strong but always a highly- 
strung man, as hysterical as any woman in 
the hour of unlooked-for success. 

Then he rang the bell. A clerk came in. 
"Send me a boy, if you please," said 
Perrin. The clerk disappeared. 

In a minute there was a knock at the door. 
" Come in ! " shouted Perrin. The voice, if 

he had only known it, was younger by twenty 
years. The boy came across to his side. 
Perrin gave him the letter. 

" I want you to cycle up to my house and 
to leave this note. You can ride as fast as 
you like. Here "—twenty minutes back he 
would as soon have thought of ordering 
champagne for dinner as of giving a penny 
away — " here's a shilling for you, my boy. 
I dare say you can manage to spend it." 

The boy grinned, brought his hand to the 
salute, and went out. Perrin turned to 
the heap of unopened official envelopes on 
his desk. He picked out one marked 
" Personal," and tore it open. It was from 
the district surveyor, informing him of his 
promotion and asking how soon he wanted to 
go. Perrin threw it lightly aside and went on 
opening the other covers. He felt that he 
could dally with entering into his new 
kingdom ; that, once his, it did not matter to 
a day or so how soon he sat its throne. 
Besides, when it came to a matter of moving, 
he must first consult his wife. 

For the next two hours he worked like a 
Trojan — good, quick, clean, crisp work, such 
as a man can only do when he feels at the 
very tip-top of his form. He was working 
still, when there came a tap at the other 
door of his room — the one that opened into 
the public office. 

"Halloa!" he called, cheerily. "Who's 

The door opened. It was his wife. Perrin 
rose to his feet. Mrs. Perrin stared. "Why, 
I hardly knew you," she cried. " You look 
so young." 

Perrin came round the corner of his desk 
and kissed her — with a victor's kiss. Then 
he led her over to the fireplace, crooked his 
arm in hers, and stood there, patting her 

" Isn't it glorious ? " he said, presently. 

His wife nodded. There were happy tears 
in her eyes. 

" And Frank," went on Perrin. " Isn't it 
magnificent for Frank? Of course, Camford 
would have been better still, but we must be 
thankful to have got anything at all. And 
he'll have his chance, after all — a real chance. 
He'll do better than his father. He's got 
twice as many brains." 

Mrs. Perrin was crying now. But she 
looked up at him curiously through her tears. 
In the vaguest, faintest, remotest way she 
was jealous of her clever son. She wanted 
to be first— always first in her husband's 


" I am sure you think too muchyof Frank," 



she whispered. " Of course, I'm thankful for 
his sake, and I know that he will make the 
most of his chances and do credit to us both. 
But it's for you that I'm really glad. You 
don't know how I've prayed and prayed for 
this to happen — and believed that it would 
happen in spite of all your disappointments. 
It means new life to you. I can see it 
already. You are even holding yourself 
differently. You've got back at least three 
inches of your height." 

Perrin laughed his joy. 

" That's because the weight's gone from 
my shoulders, dearest," he answered. And 
he stooped to kiss her once more. 

But even as his arms went round her he 
started back. Someone had knocked at the 
door. His wife slipped across to a chair. 
Perrin himself stepped swiftly away. He 
drew himself up to his new height and stood, 
striding the hearth-rug, with his back to the 
fire. Then only did he call " Come in ! " 
His chief clerk entered slowly, holding a 
telegram in his hand. He looked first at 
Perrin, then at Perrin's wife. He coughed 
ner/oujly, his fingers plucking at the orange 

" Well, Martin," asked Perrin, gaily, " what 
is it?" 

" I — I " stammered the chief clerk. " I 

saw the announcement in the Circular, and 

I was just coming to congratulate you. But 
I'm afraid I've brought you some bad news." 

"Eh— what? Bad news, Martin? What 
do you mean ? " 

Once more his second-in-command glanced 
nervously at Mrs. Perrin. She took his mean- 
ing ; she saw that something was wrong ; and, 
jumping up, she came quickly across to her 
husband's side. 

" What is it, Mr. Martin ? " she cried. 

Fear — real fear — was in her gesture and 

" It's — it's in the message," he blurted out. 

II It's from the surveyor. I'm afraid it's very 
bad news." 

Perrin reached forward and snatched at 
the envelope. The chief clerk turned and 
fled. He wanted no part in the drama to 

"My God!" cried Perrin. "Oh, my 
God ! " He gave at the knees as a pole- 
axed bullock gives, and his hand clutched 
the mantelpiece for support. 

His wife came round beside him, caught 
the flimsy paper that Perrin's hand still held, 
and, pressed against her husband, read the 
awful words : — 

" Your appointment to Murcester can- 

celled for departmental reasons. — Hughes- 
Garnett, Surveyor, G.P.O." 

For a moment they faced each other 
speechless — those two who had faced poverty 
and disappointment those terrible twenty 
years. The man was grey and writhen ; 
hope was gone from his heart ; the last spark 
of determination was fast flickering out. He 
was almost on the verge of collapse. It was 
the woman who was alive. Her eyes flashed, 
her face lighted ; she was checked, she was 
baffled, but she still defied despair ; and, look- 
ing at her husband, she saw that, once over 
the brink, he would never again climb back. 
His strength had ebbed under misfortune; 
he would be finished if he once gave in. 
He must have strength to fight ; he must 
be given courage at all costs. It was from 
her that the stimulus must come; it was she 
who must give him the vitality that she could 
so ill afford to lose- Knowing this — knowing, 
too, all that it must cost her— she put her 
whole soul into the task. 

"It's monstrous —monstrous !" she cried. 
" It's an outrage — an unspeakable, cruel 
crime. You must appeal. You must fight 
it. You mustn't, you simply mustn't give in. 
It's your life ; it's mine ; it's Frank's life. 
Sit down and write red-hot. No ; 77/ write. 
You shall dictate. Give me paper and a pen. 
You must put your whole case. You must 
ask to see the Postmaster-General himself. 
I know— everybody says so — that he's kind 
and humane. He will never allow such an 
injustice to be done." 

Her words — convincing, passionate, and all- 
removing as a mountain brook in spate — 
drove Perrin into hope, ousting his great 
despair. But for a moment he hesitated 
still, his man's sense of discipline fighting 
a woman's pluck. His wife saw him waver 
— saw, too, that more than ever the swift 
occasion must be seized. " Paper," she 
insisted. "Give me paper and a pen." 
Perrin, before her onslaught, drifted and 
succumbed. In another minute he was 
pacing the floor. The words, coming from 
deep down in his heart, rolled out quick, 
sincere, and sure. For a full hour they 
worked red-hot. And Perrin knew that he 
could never plead so well again. 

When he had finished, Mrs. Perrin leaned 
back in her husband's chair. She had 
gathered the sheets together, had numbered 
them, bundled them up. " Put them away," 
she said. " Put them away. Sleep on it and 
revise them in cold blood. To-morrow will 
be time enough, You must do your utmost 
to forget to-day." 





She sat quiet for a little, still leaning 
back, but now with closed eyes. Her will 
was keeping her going ; only her will 
Presently she got up and came into the 
middle of the room. She saw that the ex- 
citement had stimulated her husband, that it 
hud actually done him good, that strenuous 
work had fired and braced him up. The 

great thing was to keep him at concert pitch, 
He must be saved from thinking too much. 

''What are you going to do now?" she 
asked, anxiously. * 4 You mustn't stay here. 
Can't you get out and do some other work ? 
Isn't there a sub- office to visit? What about 
renleit^|^. a ffvE^\-9fl J^^Ht^fk |^|lrtve will do 
you good." 



Perrin considered a minute. There was 
stimulus in the very suggestion of the sea. 
He felt that his wife was right, as always; 
that his one chance of holding out lay in 
keeping on the move. 

"Yes. I can go there," he answered. 
44 1 am due to check the accounts. As you 
say, the drive will do me good. It will take 
me all the afternoon and more. And I can 
go straight home afterwards, without coming 
back here." 

Mrs. Perrin clapped glad hands, 

"The very thing!" she exclaimed; "the 
very thing ! How soon can you start ? " 

Her husband glanced at the desk. 

"There's nothing urgent," he reflected. 
" I can go at once. I can get a meal on the 
way. All I need do is to tell Martin that 
I sha'n't be coming back." 

He walked over to a cupboard, opened it, 
took out some foolscap forms, and stuffed 
them into a pocket of his coat. " Half a 
minute," he said, and he hurried into the 
sorting-office as he spoke. In two minutes 
he was back. He caught up his hat and 
gloves, then stopped suddenly, as if some- 
thing had weakened within him. 

"I say, it aw good. It war all right. It'll 
fetch 'em, dear. You're sure of that ? " The 
beginning of doubt was in his face and voice. 

The danger- signals were not lost upon his 
wife She looked him full in the eyes and 
answered him. " Of course it was good. Of 
course it will fetch them. And I haven't the 
slightest doubt that in the end you'll get 
something even better than Murcester itself." 

At her words the shadow went from 
Perrin's face. Mrs. Perrin was determined 
that it should not come back. To that end 
she whisked open the private door. " We can 
call at the Feathers for a carriage," she said, 
"and you can drive me up." Then, like a 
triumphing general, she led the way into the 
street. She saw that she had put hope and 
heart and life into her husband, that he had 
begun to believe that things would, in spite 
of all, come right She no longer felt jaded 
and ill. Excitement, for the time at least, is 
the best physician in the world. It was only 
later that she would have to foot the bill. 

When Perrin got home that night he was 
tired, but braced. He had driven twenty 
miles in a boisterous wind, half of them 
along a road that skirted the sea. The 
accounts had been in a mess ; he had had to 
go through them twice, for the sub-office was 
at a grocer's shop and the private money was 
mixed with the rest. His face, that the 
breeze had chafed, stung pleasantly. He 

yawned often ; he had the appetite of a horse. 
A hot meal waited him, and wine — a flask of 
Chianti— was on the table. He gasped at 
the extravagance, but made no protest. He 
even smiled at the recollection which the 
flask evoked. 

" It's a long, time since we had a dinner in 
Soho, dearest," he said; and his voice was 
only half serious. 

Mrs. Perrin faced him gaily. She had put 
on an evening frock and looked pretty and 
flushed. Like most women, she paid for 
dressing. The knowledge that she looked 
well helped to keep her up. 

"The omissi6n must be remedied at the 
first opportunity," she answered, merrily. 
And thtfn she added, with a quiet, unanswer- 
able confidence that convinced : " When you 
get your promotion you shall have wine for 
dinner every night. It will be your own 
particular share of the spoils." 

Perrin looked at her, opened his mouth to 
speak, then realized that there was nothing 
to contradict. He looked idly round the 
shabbily furnished room. 

"Where are the children?" he asked, 
suddenly, for the table was only laid for two. 

Mrs. Perrin avoided his glance. "They 
are upstairs," she said, carelessly. "They 
were sleepy, and have all gone to bed. 
Frank is staying at the Merrions' for the 
night. They have so often asked him lhat 
this time I let him go." With the genius of 
a general who would hearten his troops, she 
had cleared the camp of all that could 
remind her husband of defeat. 

Perrin ate and drank heartily while Mrs. 
Perrin talked. She spoke much, to begin 
with, of the future — of how they would con- 
trive and manage when the certain promo- 
tion came. Then, careful not to surfeit him, 
she drifted off into other things. She 
chaffed him about the Penleven office and 
the pennies and the sugar and the postal 
orders, all so inextricably mixed. She 
chaffed him about the good looks of the 
grocer's daughter, for whom, she said, he had 
a weakness, beyond doubt. She imitated 
the pomposity of the grocer himself —imitated 
it cleverly and well, for sometimes she had 
driven out with her husband when he went 
there in the summer afternoons. Perrin 
caught her gaiety, remembered a good story 
that the driver had told him, and repeated it 
over his wine. He tried to make her drink 
a fair share of the bottle and to insist upon 
her eating a decent irj^al. She pretended to 
do both, and Perrin wss; completely taken in. 
Her devotion and cleverness transformed the 



meal into a positive festival. And the trouble 
that stiil lingered at the back of his mind 
changed, even against his better judgment, 
into an easy certainty that all would come 
right in the end. In his present physical 
well being it was impossible to be otherwise 
than content. Besides, there was that tremen- 
dous, heart-issuing appeal. That, if nothing 
else, must win the day. 

After dinner his wife played for him on 
the worn-out piano while he sang. It was 
all so new aud so jolly, not having the 
children about. To keep up his spirits 
Perrin shouted boisterous musical-play ditties 
in his loud baritone voice. But presently he 
began to yawn again. The breeze and the 
dinner had done good work. 

Mrs. Perrin snatched her chance. 

"You're tired," she said. "And no 
wonder. You'd better go to bed. Then 
I'll come and read to you. It .will be a 
change from your reading to me" 

"By Jove ! " yawned Perrin, "that's a good 
scheme." He strolled off towards the door ; 
then he paused. " What book do you think 
of bringing?" 

"What book would you like, dear? "asked 
his wife. "Something of Henry James?" 
For before their exile they had moved in 
literary circles, and their tastes in reading 
had remained sound. 

Perrin laughed. " Oh, Lord, no ! " he 
answered. " 1 want something breezier than 
that ; something so old as to be quite new, 
something where somebody does something 
vigorous." He thought a second. " By 
Jove ! it's a rum thing," he completed, " un- 
commonly rum; but I think I'd like 'The 
Three Musketeers' — the part where D'Artag- 
nan is going to fight the other beggars and 
the Cardinal's Guards come and interfere." 

The door shut upon him. Mrs. Perrin went 
straight to the sofa and fell on her knees and 
prayed. Presently she got up and lay down 
with closed eyes. But in ten minutes she 
rose and went upstairs. Her husband was 
in bed. She pulled up a chair. " Now for 
Monsieur d'Artagnan," she said, gaily. 

She began to read the old, ever-new tale 
that the wizard made to charm the hearts of 
youth and middle age. The words brought 
back her girlhood ; she spoke them with 
zest ; the task, for all her weakness, was a 
delight. Presently, glancing over the book's 
top, she saw her husband's hand stretch out, 
palm uppermost, imploring hers. She set it 
there, warm and clasping ; then, with a little 
break in her voice, read on. When she looked 
,,r » again she saw that he was asleep. But 

she read for a little longer, to make sure. 
Then, very gently, she freed her hand, and, 
tiptoeing to the gas-jet, put it out. She un- 
dressed in the darkness and crept to bed. 
Perrin was drawing deep and easy breath. 
For the first time for months he did not 
mutter in his sleep or murmur the name of 
his boy, Frank. 

When he awoke his wife was not there. 
He looked at his watch. It was after eight. 
Perrin, the jaded of yesterday, sprang lightly 
to the floor. In five minutes he was singing 
in his bath — a thing he had not done for 
years. He remembered histroubles perfectly. 
But hope had come back, and happiness at 
the prospect of a fight. Misfortune some- 
times takes a man that way. It is better to 
face a crisis than to rust, and a live trouble is 
better than a numb and deadening despair. 

Running downstairs he found his wife 
alone at the breakfast-table. . The children 
had already been got off to school. " You're 
a wizard," he said. " A positive wizard. I 
slept like a top all night." Mrs. Perrin only 
smiled. It was she who had lain awake. 

She walked down the path with her 
husband and stood talking to him at the little 
iron gate. She had brushed his coat; she 
had settled his tie. Perrin looked quite 
smart. His wife laughed and chaffed him, 
and he positively flirted back. At last, very 
reluctantly, he turned to go. Then only did 
Mrs. Perrin allude to the thing that had to 
be faced. "All will come right," she said, 
gaily. " I know it will." Perrin laughed back. 

" You can make me believe anything," he 
retorted. But he spoke sheer truth. 

" Don't forget to revise that appeal," called 
Mrs. Perrin as he swung down the street. 
" And, above all, bring it up for me to see." 
Perrin nodded and waved his stick. 

She watched him out of sight. But she 
leaned against the gate-post for support. 
Then, very slowly, she returned along the 
tiled path to the house and crawled upstairs. 
It was all that she could do to get back into 
bed. There she lay helpless and shivering. 
She tried to pray, but the words would not 
come. She had no strength ; her vitality was 
utterly gone. She had given it all to her 
husband, and now, while hope was high in 
him, her heart was full of the blackest 
despair. She had no longer any faith. " It's 
all been useless," she repeated, dully, 
" useless, useless, useless. Nothing's any 
good. We shall be here at Belboro till we 

Perritj»IWERSff*OF MCWJtMJ that morn- 
ing, and it was noon before he could begin 



to look at the appeal. When he did so he 
was thunderstruck. It ran magnificently, it 
carried weight, it convinced. "By Jove!" 
he cried, in his astonishment, " I never 
thought that I could write such stuff as 
that ! " It was certainly good, but not quite 
so good as he believed. The vitality that, 
without knowing it, he had taken from the 
woman who loved him made him over- 
estimate his work. He was dotting his i's and 
crossing his t's when there came a disturbing 
knock at the private door of his room. 

" Oh, bother it, 1 ' said Perrin. " Just when 
I didn t want to be disturbed." He got up, 
rather crossly. " Come in ; oh, come in ! " 
he called. 

"Good morning, Mr. Perrin. How are 
you? Pretty well?" 

It was Hughes-Garnett, the district surveyor! 
Perrin took the proffered hand and pulled up 
a chair. Then he dropped back into his own, 
and sat facing his visitor. Hughes-Garnett 
was a finely-built man, with a grey Vandyke 
beard and blue, kindly eyes. His voice was 
pleasant and his manner full of charm. Perrin 
felt soothed and irritated, both. He wanted 
to fight — and liked his opponent too much. 

Hughes-Garnett spoke first. 

44 You got my telegram ? " he began. " Of 
course, you understood?" 

Perrin's eyes flashed. " Yes," he answered. 
44 1 understood. But I think the Department 
might have overlooked a suspension that 
took place twenty years ago. God knows " — 
he spoke very bitterly — "God knows I've 
worked hard enough to atone for it" 

Hughes-Garnett stared. His kindliness 
went hand in hand with a keen sense of his 
official position, and this was not how he had 
expected to be received 

"I've no doubt you're right, Mr. Perrin," 
he said, stiffly ; " but, to tell you the truth, I 
haven't the least idea what you're talking 

Perrin stared back* His body trembled 
and his voice rose. The passionate disap- 
pointment of twenty years thrilled through 
him as he spoke. 

44 They give me a promotion," he said. 
44 They give it me after I've been eating out 
my heart and getting old with hope deferred. 
And then — and then they change their minds 
and tell you to tell me, by telegram^ that I'm 
not to have it after all. It's monstrous ! It's 
cruel ! It's brutal beyond words ! " 

The district surveyor stared harder than 
ever. He was no longer angry |-r only 
mystified. He saw that the man was sincere 
- that he was cut to the very heart. But he 

knew how lonely, forgotten, disappointed 
men at the end of the official string worry 
and think always of the worst. 

44 1 really don't understand," he began 
again. " I may tell you at once that you're 
fretting without reason. But you speak of a 
suspension. Do you mind explaining exactly 
what you mean ? " 

44 VVhy, the Savings Bank revolt — the 
refusal to do overtime — the punishment by 
suspension — the record against me, twenty 
years ago. It's that, of course, which has 
kept me back — which has ruined my chances 
now. Why should a man suffer like this for 
what was just the foolishness of a boy ? " 

The other leaned forward a little and his 
fingers tapped the desk. His chin went up ; 
his eyebrows arched, as if he tried to recall 
something long since put out of mind. Then 
his eyes brightened, and instinctively he 
threw up his hand. 

44 Ah ! I remember now. The old trouble 
at the Savings Bank, when Andrew was sent 
to put it straight. So you were one of the 
rebels ? But, bless you ! that's all forgotten 
and forgiven — it's ancient history, long since 
wiped out. You don't mean to say that 
you've been worrying about that ? " 

Perrin nodded. " Indeed I do. What 
other meaning could your telegram possibly 
have had ? " 

Then, and then only, did the district sur- 
veyor understand. He saw what Perrin's 
anxious face showed ; he divined something 
of his struggle. He looked genuinely dis- 

44 You poor, poor chap ! " he exclaimed. 
44 You must have had a bad time. Though I 
couldn't make the telegram any more explicit, 
because I didn't myself know what they were 
going to do. But I thought you would jump 
at the explanation, as I did." 

Perrin shook his head. " I could only see 
one explanation," he insisted. "It could 
only be that." 

44 But," cried the other, eagerly, " didn't 
you see your brother's promotion? Didn't 
you connect the two ? " 

Then, as Perrin made no answer, but only 
regarded him with dumb amazement, he 
went on : " Man alive, you know the rule. 
Murcester is in the central district, which is 
vacant, and your brother's going there as 
chief. It's the first rule of the service that a 
man mayn't work under the immediate con- 
trol of a blood relation. They only found 
out you Mere brothers when the appoint- 
ments were gazetted Thai — and that only 
— is why the telegram was sent" 




Perrin began to tremble like a leaf. But it 
was with hope. " Then they are going to give 
me something else?" he stammered, 

" My dear fellow, of course they are, 
That's why I'm here to-day. I thought I 
would give myself the plensure of telling you 
in person how glad i am," 

A new and wonderful thought had birth 
in Perrin's heart. "And the office?" he 
almost shouted li The office is ? " 

" Camford," answered the district sur- 
veyor* " And t between ourselves, 1 don't 
think you could have a nicer place/' 

As he spoke, he rose and put out his hand. 
Perrin, leaping to his feet, gripped it and 
held it hard. The room was a blur about 
him, and at first the sense of his great 
happiness flashed past him far too swift to 
g ras p. P r ese n t i y h e laughed, rather fool is h ly, 
because he was afraid that he was going to 
cry. Then he forced his first conscious 
thought into words, 

M Would you excuse me for a couple of 
minutes?" he asked, lamely. "I think— I 
rather WMEfciTduQF Mlfe MKitHd a letter to 
my wife." * 






IPFICULT strokes at billiards 
may be divided roughly into 
two separate and distinct cate- 
gories, comprising respectively 
strokes which are difficult 
owing to the incidence of the 
fortunes of the game, and " set " strokes of 
the trick variety, which are made difficult on 
purpose to display the prowess of the cue- 
man to advantage. It is not my intention 
to deal with trick strokes in the present 
article, but rather to elucidate for the reader 
some awkward billiard problems which crop 
up in actual play, and often prove a stumbling- 
block to the average performer. 

Our first diagram illustrates a position of 
this kind. The red is on the billiard spot, 
the object-white is on the brink 
of the centre of the right middle 
pocket, with the cue-ball lying 
directly behind, as shown in the 
diagram. Apparently there is 
nothing better on than a four 
Stroke followed by a miss in 
baulk, and if a man was a long 
way ahead of his opponent and 
only wanted a few points for game 
this would be fine correct policy 
to adopt But if the game was 
in a normal state, when no reason- 
able opportunity of making a 
break should be allowed to pass, 
then the player should aim care- 
fully at that portion of the jaw 

Vol xxxix.— 30. 


of the right middle pocket which can be 
hit by just missing the object-ball. Put on 
plenty of left side and strike the cue-ball 
fairly low, and a losing hazard off the white 
can be made by any player up to twenty- 
break form. But the cue-ball must be struck 
clean and true, not " poked at " in a style 
which slurs cue delivery and spoils many 
a stroke which the over-anxious amateur 
imagines he is taking extra pains with. But 
be very careful just to miss the white by the 
narrowest possible margin, as the least graze 
is absolutely fatal. A fair amount of pace 
may be used ; it is quite easy to spoil the 
stroke by attempting to play it too slowly ; 
and, provided my directions are carried out, 
it will be found that the object-ball will 
travel in the direction indicated 
by the dotted line in the diagram 
and a good game will be left. 

The second diagram presents 
a grouping of the balls which is 
often the result of bad losing 
hazard play, and is better known 
than liked by many players. 
Nearly tight against the side 
cushion, equi-distant between the 
middle pocket and the baulk- 
line, the red lies in what may 
be termed a "billiard Gibraltar, " 
so far as tackling it with the 
idea of scoring a hazard is con- 
cerned* The object-white is 2in. 

^uNivffi&tvdhiWIia* cushion and 



ioin. from the baulk cushion, the cue- 
ball is in hand. Of course, a cannon is 
the obvious stroke to play, but there is 
nothing easy about it, and even a first-class 
exponent might be forgiven for failing to do 
more than go very near* indeed 
to success when faced by this 
leave. By far the best manner 
in which to attack this unfavour- 
able position is by placing the 
cue-ball on the right-hand spot of 
the " D," and play for an all- 
round cannon off four cushions 
on to the red ball. Plenty of 
pace is required ; give the cue 
a fine, free swing, and let drive 
with almost the last ounce of 
power you can put into the 
stroke. Hit the red fine, but 
not too fine, on the right side, 
and impart a fair amount of top 
and much right side to the cue- 
ball. Then the cue-ball will speed 
round the table like a ray of 
light, taking the course shown by the con- 
tinuous line in the diagram, and the player 
will have the satisfaction of scoring a really 
difficult stroke. Played to perfection this 
cannon leaves the balls well, as the red is 
" doubled" back across the table approxi- 
mately in the direction shown by the dotted 
line, and the balls are " gathered " nicely 
together in quite a useful position for a 
break. Of course, an element of chance 
is inseparable from a stroke of this type even 
when it is attempted by the best 
exponents, especially so far as the 
after position is concerned. But 
this is the salt of the game ; it 
is the one thing which prevents 
billiards from becoming as exact 
and dull as the ticking of a clock. 
Quite another type of difficult 
stroke is presented by our third 
problem. Here we are con- 
fronted by a stroke which demands 
considerable cue-power to mani- 
pulate successfully, and it is one 
which the average amateur must 
usually be content to score with 
certainty when it is his "day 
out," and he is in the happy 
mood when he feels that to him 
all things in billiards are possible 
for the time being. But the stroke is so 
obviously the game, and so remunerative 
when exploited at all well, that the average 
performer really ought to add it to the 
collection of strokes he has more than 



a nodding acquaintance with. It will be 
seen that the white is on the billiard spot, 
the red just clear of the baulk-line and 
almost touching the left side cushion; the 
cue-ball is on the left-hand spot of the " D."' 
A losing hazard off the red ball 
into the left baulk pocket is the 
one and only stroke to play here, 
and, as the spectator at big 
matches is doubtless well aware, 
the score is a practical certainty 
when handled by the leading ex- 
ponents of billiards. To play 
the stroke, as much right-hand 
side as you know anything about 
should be imparted to the cue- 
ball, which should also be struck 
well below its centre to give it 
the backward twist or " screw ,? 
which will make it throw a wide 
angle after contact with the red. 
About a half - ball contact is 
required — certainly not less than 
a half-ball — and it is not necessary 
to employ an extraordinary amount of force. 
The right strength to bring the red across the 
table towards the left middle pocket will do 
very well, and care should be taken to play 
the stroke with freedom. I^ei the cue do its 
work properly, and be careful to strike that 
portion of the cue-ball which enables you to 
impart the maximum amount of side. This 
is the real secret of the stroke — you must hit 
the cue-ball with the point of the cue as far 
on the outer edge of its greatest available 
circumference as you can without 
miscueing. lake advantage of 
the enormous leverage offered by 
the width of the ball, and get 
the cue as far over as you can 
consistent with hitting the ball 
below its horizontal centre to 
give "screw" simultaneously with 
"side." Then you will see that 
the right side, if you have enough 
of it, will literally pull the ball 
into the pocket, even if it strikes 
the side cushion during its 

Our fourth stroke is a beautiful 
example of what can be done by 
making the cue - ball strike a 
cushion before impact with the 
object-ball. The possibilities of 
this phase of billiards are almost a sealed 
book to many amateurs, and even in the 
highest flights of the game the public has 
yet to see anything approaching all that 
can bq.dcn^^i^^^^.^he red hall 

um i 



k=— - ---.^4 


is 36m. from the top 
cushion and touching 
the right side cushion, 
and the object-ball is 
2 y* in. from the left 
side cushion and 4 ^2 in. 
from the top cushion. 
The cue-ball is in hand, 
and to play this stroke 
we will place it on the 
right hand spot of the 
44 1)." Take careful 
aim at a spot on the 
top cushion a little 
wide of the white ball, 
and put all the left 
"side" on the cue ball 
you can call to your assistance. 
Then the cue-ball will rebound 
off the top cushion, the strong 
side will compel it to hit the 
white at the right angle to make 
a losing hazard into the left top 
pocket, and the object-ball will 
come down the table more or 
less as shown by the dotted line 
in our diagram. This is an 
exceedingly difficult stroke to 
illustrate pictorially, as the exact 
position of the object-ball and 
the right spot to hit on the 
cushion cannot be shown so 
clearly as I should like them to 
appear on a diagram. But if 
the measurements are followed 
out carefully, measuring from the 
face of the cushion to the centre of the 
ball, and the playing directions given careful 
attention, then the stroke can be mastered 
with a little practice, and will well repay the 
time and study spent on it. 

A man could hardly desire to leave the 
balls more difficult for his worst enemy than 
by leaving them m the position illustrated in 
our fifth diagram. It will be seen that all 
three balls are dead in line with each other ; 
the object-white is dead tight against the 
left side cushion, the red is a foot from 
the side cushion and i8in. from the top 
cushion, with the cue-ball directly behind 
it and loin, from the top cushion. It is 
difficult indeed even to play for safety here, 
and to essay a scoring stroke successfully 
needs undeniable cue - power and a nice 
knowledge of the possibilities of the game. 
The best stroke to play with the idea of 
scoring is a screw losing hazard off the 
red ball into the left top pocket, and I may 
say at once that the stroke is " difficult '* 


indeed. But it can be made by putting 
plenty of "screw" on the cue-ball, accom- 
panied by as much right side as can be 
utilized in combination with the requisite 
backward twist Aim to hit the red so nearly 
full that it clears the white ball, as shown very 
well in the diagram, and almost every player 
will find that he will be compelled to put 
enough power into the stroke to bring the 
red right round the table, as illustrated by 
the dotted line in the diagram. It is a 
counsel of perfection to write about playing 
the stroke slowly enough to leave a losing 
hazard into the right middle pocket, and 
the class of player for whom this article is 
intended will do well indeed if he brings off 
the hazard and leaves the red well up the 
table in the vicinity of the right 
top pocket. A great point to 
remember in playing this stroke 
is that the cue must be grasped 
firmly the instant it strikes the 
cue-ball, and a gentle reminder 
to chalk the cue will not be 
out of place when the reader 
attempts to screw the cue-ball 
back into the recesses of the 
left top pocket. 

Problem six presents what 
may be called a doubly difficult 
stroke. It is difficult to score 
because the hazard is not exactly 
the easiest ever seen, and it is 
even more difficult because the 
stroke has to be played most 
correctly to maintain the desired 
positional sequence of the balls. It calls 
into play one of the prettiest phases of 
English billiards, demanding, as it does, the 
utilization of the jaw of a pocket to save 
the first object-ball. The red is on the 
billiard spot, the object- 
white is 19^ in. from 
the right side cushion 
and i7j4in. from the 
baulk cushion, while 
the cue-ball is 2 2^jin. 
from the baulk cushion 
and $ l / 2 in. from the 
right side cushion. 
The game is to play 
a screw loser off the 
white ball into the 
right baulk pocket, and 
the object - ball must 
be struck in- such a 
way that it) impinges 
on the farther jaw of 

,hc *MW!:Hi6Ai} ,x, " s "' 

SF 5 ^ 




23 6 



rebounds on to the other jaw, and travels 
out of baulk up the table towards the 
vicinity of the left middle pocket This 
stroke looks more formidable than it really 
is, as the screw hazard, played with a good 
deal of left side, is not so hard 
to achieve as the stroke described 
in our last paragraph. And by 
aiming at the pocket jaw the 
right point to hit on the object- 
ball is determined automatically, 
and the stroke can be made 
repeatedly by a fairly 
amateur cueist But the 
ciple of the stroke is the thing 
to bear in mind, as the great 
majority of players never think 
for an instant that the jaw of 
a pocket can be deliberately em- 
ployed to rescue the white from 
a bad position. Many variations 
of this stroke are to be met with, 
and the amateur who desires to 
make headway in the higher branches of the 
game will profit more than a little if he 
studies the different effects to be obtained by 
making a ball hit the jaws of a pocket. 

A useful knowledge of the angles of the 
table is to be gained by a careful study of 
the seventh problem. It will be seen that 
our red is 2in. from the left side cushion 
and about 6in. clear of the baulk- 
line. The object-white is away 
up the table just below the billiard 
spot and quite close to the left 
side cushion, about the width of a 
ball away from it The cue-ball 
is on the centre spot of the " I V 
and while something desperate in 
the way of a direct screw cannon 
might be attempted, and even 
brought off, by an utterly reckless 
player— a sort of billiard anarchist, 
in fact— yet it will be found that 
the all-round cannon as shown in 
the diagram is both easier and 
more profitable. A little left side 
should be employed, and quite a 
lot of pace must be given a chance 
to show what it can do. Played smartly the 
correct angle can be made without putting on 
a great deal of side, and the pace will also 
obviate the necessity for anything approach- 
ing a thick contact between the cue-ball and 
the object-red. Aim to hit the red ball in such 
a way that it will " double" across the table 
well clear of the middle pocket and come 


the cue-ball slightly above its horizontal 
centre to give it plenty of life and help it on 
its long journey round the table vi& three 
cushions. This is a stroke of the " gathering " 
type ; it brings the balls together when they are 
left widely scattered, and should 
be practised assiduously, especi- 
ally by those who are prone to 
cramp their game by making a 
hopeless, half-hearted attempt to 
score when the balls run difficult. 
Our last problem is perhaps the 
easiest of the series, and I have 
set it up with the idea of warning 
amateurs against what is certainly 
the greatest cause of the common 
fault of " overdoing it " when 
"screw" shots have to be dealt 
with and the cue-ball and object- 
ball are not too far apart. The 
stroke before us shows my mean- 
ing quite clearly. The white is 
out of the way near the baulk-line, 
the cue ball is on the pyramid spot, and the 
red is rather more than an inch higher 
up the table and i8in. from the left side 
cushion. The stroke is just a simple " screw " 
losing hazard into the left top pocket 
played with left side. Do not hit the balls 
as if you owed them a personal grudge ; a 
well-judged, medium-paced stroke decidedly 
on the slow side is all we want ; 
but do be careful to make nothing 
more than a half-ball contact with 
the object-red. This is where the 
average player so often comes to 
grief ; he forgets that " screw " 
enables a comparatively fine con- 
tact to be made with an object- 
ball, provided the cue-ball does not 
have to travel too far, and he will 
persist in playing these strokes as 
if they were tremendously difficult 
" forcing hazards," with best part 
of the length of the table between 
the balls. Consequently he " does 
too much to it " every time, and 
the cause of his failure is the ever 
fatal over-thick contact between 
the cue-ball and object-ball when they are 
fairly close together. 

Practising these strokes will assuredly in- 
crease the average player's confidence in his 
cuemanship and encourage him to face a really 
bad leave with the good heart which so often 
accounts for the difference between a sue 
cessful stroke and a wretchedly-played shot 
to rest near the second object-ball as shown It should be noted that all the strokes are 


in the diagram. And it is as well to strike 

played with ivory balls. 



— — 








§33 H IMP HALDANK stood in 
'to ^zjffl li l ^ e shadow of the dark arch 
and looked out. He saw 
before him a great square sur 
rounded by tall, irregular build- 
ings. In the middle was a 
fountain, whose waters, silver in the moon 
light, ruse and fell with gentle sounds. 

His eyes, growing accustomed to the dim 
ni*ss, showed him that he was under a heavy 
domed roof, supported on large, square 
pillars. To the right and left stood dark 
doors, shut fast 

" 1 will explore these doors by daylight," 
lie said. 

And then suddenly he felt very sleepy. 

-\na men suaaeniy ne ten very s*eepy. grann too. nere ne was in me miacue c 

lie leaned against the wall, and presently an ^V^P^V^RPlljJ^Nf^VHI 1 ^'di*^ H 

i vi-yri^hl, r-,1., by K. V Iffll MM OF MPC H IG Al 

it seemed that sitting down would 
be less trouble, and then tha: 
lying down would be more truly 
comfortable- A bell from very, 
very far away sounded the hour. 
Twelve, Philip counted up to nine, 
but he missed the tenth bell beat, 
and the eleventh and the twelfth 
as well, because he was fast asleep. 
When he awoke he was not in his 
soft bed at home, but on the hard 
floor of a big strange house. A 
tall man ijn a red coat was shaking 

"What's the matter?" said 
Philip, sleepily. 

** That's the question/' said the 
man in red. "Come along to 
the guard - room and give an 
account of yourself, you young 
shaver. 1 

He took Philip's arm gently but 
firmly between a very hard finger 
and thumb, 

The soldier led him through one 
of those doors which he had 
thought of exploring by daylight. 
It seemed to Philip that the room 
was full of soldiers. 

Their captain, with a good deal 
of gold about him h and a very 
smart black moustache, got up 
from a bench. 

fl IxH)k what I've caught, sir : 
said the man who owned the hand 
on Philip's shoulder. 
" Humph ■ " said the captain, '* So it's 
really happened at last," 
"What has? 11 said Philip, 
41 Why, you have," said the captain. 
" Don't be frightened, little man," 

b£ I'm not frightened, ? said Philip, and 
added, politely, " I should be so much 
obliged if you'd tell me what you mean/' 

A jolly roar of laughter went up from 
the red-coats. 

11 It isn't manners to laugh at strangers," 
said Philip* 

" Mind your own manners/ 1 said the 
captain, sharply, " In this country little 
hoys speak when they're spoken to. Stranger, 
eh ? Well, we knew that, you know : :? 

Philip, though he felt snubbed, yet fek 
grand top*, ■ Hertrhe was in the middle of 


2 3 8 


threw out his chest and tried to look 

The captain sat down in a chair at the 
end of a long table, drew a black book to 
him — a black book covered with dust — and 
began to rub a rusty pen-nib on his sword, 
which was not rusty. 

" Come now ! " he said, opening the book, 
" tell me how you came here. And mind you 
speak the truth." 

" I always speak the truth," said Philip, 

All the soldiers rose and saluted him with 
looks of deep surprise and respect. 

" Well, nearly always," said Philip, hot to 
the ears, and the soldiers clattered stiffly 
down again on to the benches, laughing once 

" How did you come here ? " said the 

"Up the great bridge staircase," said 

"Where do you want to get to?" asked 
the captain. 

"The address," said Philip, "is the 
(irange, Ravelsham, Sussex." 

" Don't know it," said the captain, briefly. 
44 And, anyhow, you can't go back there now. 
Didn't you read the notice at the top of the 
ladder? 'Trespassers will be prosecuted/ 
You've got to be prosecuted before you can 
go back anywhere." 

" Do you have many trespassers? " Philip 

" Many trespassers indeed ! " The captain 
almost snorted his answer. "That's just it. 
There's never been one before. You're the 
first. For years and years and years there's 
been a guard here, because when the town 
was first built the astrologers foretold that 
some day there would be a trespasser who 
would do untold mischief." 

" I wonder," said Philip, " why you don't 
cut off the end of your ladder — the top end, 
I mean ; then nobody could come up." 

"That would never do," said the captain, 
" because, you see, there's another prophecy. 
The great deliverer is to come that way." 

" Couldn't I," suggested Philip, shyly, 
"couldn't I be the deliverer instead of the 
trespasser? I'd much rather, you know." 

" I dare say you would," said the captain, 
" but people can't be deliverers just because 
they'd much rather, you know." 

" And isn't anyone to come up the ladder 
bridge except just those two ?" 

" We don't know ; that's just it. You 
know what prophecies are." 

" I'm afraid I don't, exactly." 

41 So vague and mixed up, I mean. The 
one I'm telling you about goes over some- 
thing like this : — 

Who comes up ihe ladder stair ? 

Beware ! Beware ! 
Steely eyes — and copper hair, 
Strife and grief ;ind pain to l>ear, 
All comes up the ladder stair. 
The other prophecy goes : — 

From down and down and very far down 
The King shall come to take his own. 
He shall deliver the magic town 
And all that he made shall l>e his own. 
Beware, take care, beware, prepare, 
The King shall come by the ladder stair. 1 ' 
" How jolly ! " said Philip. " I love poetry. 
Do you know any more ? " 

" There are heaps of prophecies, of course," 
said the captain. " There's rather a nice 
one : — 

Every night when the bright stars blink 
The guard shall turn out and have a drink 
As the clock strikes two — 
And every night when no stars are seen 
The guards shall drink in their own canteen 
When the clock strikes two. 

To-night there aren't any stars, so we have 
the drinks served here. It's less trouble than 
going across the square to the canteen, and 
the principle's the same. Principle's the great 
thing with a prophecy, my boy." 

" Yes," said Philip. And then the far-away 
bell beat again. One — two. And outside 
was a light patter of feet. 

A soldier rose, saluted his officer, and 
threw open the door. There was a moment's 
pause— Philip expected someone to come hi 
with a tray and glasses, as they did at his 
great-uncle's when gentlemen were suddenly 
thirsty at times that were not mealtimes. 
But instead, after a moment's pause, a dozen 
greyhounds stepped daintily in on their 
padded, cat-like feet ; and round the neck of 
each dog was slung a roundish thing that 
looked like one of the little barrels which 
St. Bernard dogs wear round their necks in 
the pictures. And when these were loosened 
and laid on the table, Philip was charmed to 
see that the roundish things were not barrels 
but cocoanuts. 

The soldiers reached down some pewter 
pots from a high shelf, pierced the cocoanuts 
with their bayonets, and poured out the 
cocoanut-milk. They all had drinks, so the 
prophecy came true ; what is more, they gave 
Philip a drink as well. It was delicious, and 
there was as much of it as he wanted. 

Then the hollow cocoanuts were tied on 
to the dogs' necks again and out they went, 
slim and beautiful, two by two, wagging their 
slender tails in the most amiable and orderly 


u I I I ■_' I I I 




And then 
1 here came a 
little tap at the 
door of the 
guard room, 
and a very 
little voice 
said : — 

"Oh, do 
please let nie 
come in ! 



in, whoever you are/' said the captain. And 
the person who came in was Lucy — Lucy, 
whom Philip thought he had got rid of ; 
Lucy, who stood for the new, hateful lilt- 
to which Helen had left him ; Lucy, in her 
serge skirt and jersey, with her little, sleek, 
fair pigtails, and that anxious " I -wish we 
could-be-friends w smile of hers, 

Philip was furious. It was too had, 

"And who is this?" the captain was 
saying kindly. 

"It's me — it's Lucy/' she said, " I came 
up with him"' 

She pointed to Philip* "No manners," he 
thought, in bitterness. 

''No, you didn't," he said, ^hrttftO 

" I did ; I was rinse behind you when you 
were climbing the ladder bridge. And I've 
been waiting about ever since, when you 
were asleep and all. I ktunv he'd be cross 
when he saw I'd come," she explained to 
the soldiers, 

41 I'm not cross," said Philip, very crossly 
indeed, but the captain signed to him to be 
silent. Thin Liny was questioned and her 
answers written in the book, and when that 
was done the captain said :-- 

"So this little girl is n friend of yours ? " 

** No, she isn't; 1 " 
said Philip, vio- 
lently ; "she's not 
my friend, and she 
never will be. I've 
seen her — that's 
all, and 1 don't 
want to see her 

" Vou are un- 
kind/' said Lucy. 
And then there 
was a grave 
silence, most un- 
pleasant to Philip. 
The soldiers, he 
perceived, now 
looked coldly at 
him. Me frowned 
and said nothing, 
Lucy had snug 
gled up against 
the captain's knee, 
and he was strok 
ing her hair. 

*Poor little 
woman, 7 ' he said. 
* N Vou must go to 
sleep now, so as 
to he rested before 
ytju go to the Hall 
of justice in the morning/ 1 

When they woke it was bright daylight and 
a soldier was saying, " Wake up, trespassers ! 
Breakfast ! ,? 

" How jolly," thought Philip, " to be 
having military breakfast ! " Then he 
remembered Lucy, and hated her being 
there, and fell once more that she had 
spoiled everything. 

Now it was time to start for the Hall of 
Justice. Once, just after they started, Lucy 
said, "Aren't you frightened, Philip ? " And 
he would not answer, though he longed to 
say, "Of course noL It*s (inly girls who 
are afraid." nr;«;^Jf, 






caught hold of his hand and said, " Oh ! 
Doesn't it remind you of anything?" 

Philip pulled his hand away and said 
"No!" And the "No" was quite untrue, 
for the building did remind him of some- 
thing, though he couldn't have told you 

The prisoners and their guard passed 
through a great arch between magnificent 
silver pillars and along a vast corridor lined 
with soldiers, who all saluted. 

The judge sat on a high bronze throne 
with colossal bronze dragons on each side of 
it, and wide, shallow steps of ivory, black and 

Two attendants spread a round mat on 
the top of the steps in front of the judge — a 
yellow mat it was, and very thick — and he 
stood up and saluted the prisoners ("Because 
of your misfortunes," the captain whispered). 

The judge wore a bright yellow robe, with 
a green girdle, and he had no wig, but a very 
odd-shaped hat, which he kept on all the 

The trial did not last long, and the captain 
said very little, and the judge still less, while 
the prisoners were not allowed to speak at 
all. The judge looked up something in a 
book, and consulted in a low voice with the 
Crown lawyer, a sour-faced person in black. 
Then he put on his spectacles and said : — 

"Prisoners at the bar, you are found 
guilty of trespass. The punishment is death 
— if the judge does not like the prisoners. 
If he does not dislike them it is imprisonment 
for life, or until the judge has had time to 
think it over. Remove the prisoners." 

" Gh, don't ! " cried Philip, almost 

" I thought you weren't afraid ! " whispered 

"Silence in court," said the judge. 

Then Philip and Lucy were removed. 

They were marched by streets quite dif- 
ferent from those they had come by, and at 
last, in the corner of a square, they came to 
a large house that was quite black. 

" Here we are," said the captain, kindly. 
" Good-bye — better luck next time." 

The jailer, a gentleman in black velvet, 
with a ruff and a pointed beard, came out 
and welcomed them cordially. 

" How do you do, my dears ? " he said. 
" I hope you'll be comfortable here. First- 
class misdemeanants, I suppose?" he asked. 

" Of course," said the captain. 

" Top floor, if you please," said the jailer, 
politely, and stood back to let the children 
pass. "Turn to the left and up the stairs." 

The stairs were dark, and went on and on 
and round and round and up and up. At 
the very top was a big room, simply furnished 
with a table, chairs, and a rocking-horse — 
who wants more furniture than that ? 

" You've got the best view in the whole 
city," said the jailer, "and you'll be com- 
pany for me. What ? They gave me the 
post of jailer because it's nice, light, gentle- 
manly work, and leaves the time for my 
writing. I'm a literary man, you know. But 
I've sometimes found it a trifle lonely. You're 
the first prisoners I've ever had, you see* 
If you'll excuse me, I'll go and order some 
dinner for you. You won't be contented with 
the feast of reason and the flow of soul, I 
feel certain." 

The moment the door had closed on the 
jailer's black back Philip turned on Lucy. 

" I hope you're satisfied," he said, bitterly ; 
" this is all your doing. They'd have let me 
off if you hadn't been here. What on earth 
did you want to come here for ? Why did 
you come running after me like that ? You 
know I don't like you ! " 

"You're the hatefullest, disagreeablest, 
horridest boy in all the world," said Lucy, 
firmly. "There!" 

Philip had not expected this. He met it 
as well as he could. 

" I'm not a little sneak of a white mouse 
squeezing in where I'm not wanted, anyhow," 
he said. 

And then they stood looking at each other, 
breathing quickly, both of them. 

" I'd rather be a white mouse than a cruel 
bully," said Lucy at last 

" I'm not a bully," said Philip. 

Then there was another silence. Lucy 
sniffed. Philip looked round the bare room, 
and suddenly it came to him that he and 
Lucy were companions in misfortune, no 
matter whose fault it was that they were 
imprisoned. So he said:-— 

" Look here, I don't like you, and I sha'n't 
pretend I do. But I'll call it Pax for the 
present if you like. We've got to escape 
from this place somehow, and I'll help you 
if you like, and you may help me if you can." 

"Thank you," said Lucy, and in a tone 
which might have meant anything. 

"So we'll call it Pax and see if we can 
escape by the window. There might be ivy, 
or a faithful page with a rope-ladder. Have 
you a page at the Grange?" 

"There's two stable-boys," said Lucy, 
" but I don't think they're faithful. And, I 
say, I think all this n much more magic than 

>' ou thil T>N , fVERSITYOF MICHIGAN ■ 



"Of course, I know it's magic," said he, 
impatiently, " but it's quite real too." 

11 Oh, it*s real enough," said she. 

They leaned out of the window. Alas ! 
there was no ivy. Their window was very 
high up, and the wall outside when they 
touched it with their hands felt as smooth as 

" That's no go," said he, and the two 
leaned still farther 
out of the win- 
dow looking 
down on the 
town. There were 
strong towers and 
line minarets and 
palaces, palm 
trees and foun- 
tains and gar- 
dens. A white 
building across 
the square looked 
strangely fa mi liar. 
Could it be like 
St. Paul's, which 
Philip had been 
taken to see 
when he was very 
little, and which 
he had never 
been able to re- 
member ? No, 
he could not re- 
member it even 
now. The two 
prisoners looked 
out in a long 
silence. Far be- 
low lay the city, 
its trees softly 
waving in the 
breeze, flowers 
shining in a 
bright, many- 
coloured patchwork. The canals that inter- 
sected the big squares gleamed in the sun- 
light, and crossing and recrossing the squares 
and streets were the people of the town 
coming and going about their business. 

" Look here ! " said Lucy, suddenly, " do 
you mean to say you don't know?" 

"Know what ?" he asked, impatiently. 

11 Where we are. What it is. Don't 

" No, No more do you/' 

11 Haven't you seen it all before?" 

11 No. Of course I haven't. No more 

have you." 

"All right I have seen it before, 
Vol JtiJcix.-31. 


though," said Lucy, " and so have you. But 
I sha'n't tell you what it is unless you'll be 
nice to me." Her tone was a little sad, but 
quite firm. 

*'I am nice to you. I told you it was 
Pax," said Philip. "Tell me what you think 
it is." 

" 1 don't mean that sort of grandish, stand- 
offish Pax, but real Pax. Oh, don't be so 

horrid, Philip ! 
I'm dying to tell 
you, but I wont 
ifyougoon being 
like you are/ 1 

«/* all right," 
said Philip; "out 
with it/' 

" No. You've 
got to say, * It's 
Pax, and I will 
stand by you till 
we get out of this, 
and I'll always 
act like a noble 
friend to you, 
and I'll try my 
best to like you/ 
Of course, if you 
can't like me, 
you can't, but 
you ought to try. 
Say it after me, 
won't you ?" 

Her tone was 
so kind and 
persuading that 
he found himself 
saying after 
her: — 

M I, Philip, 
agree to try and 
like you, Lucy, 
and to stand by 
you till we're out 
of this, and always to act the part of a noble 
fjiend to you. And it's real Pax. Shake 

11 Now, then," said he, when they had 
shaken hands, and Lucy uttered these 
words :- — 

" L)on*t you see? It's your own city that 
we're in — your own city thai you built on the 
tables in the drawing-room ? It's all got big 
by magic, so that we could get in, Look!*' 
She pointed out of the windows. "See ! That 
great golden dome, that's one of the brass 
finger-bow|l^ja^[ a |tlpprt|^hite building my old 
mod^(rf:i^-(Wwr jAM*h$Wf's Buckingham 

Sifted squirrel on 

Palace over'lhere^ 



the top, and the chessmen, and the building 
here is the black Japanese cabinet," 

Philip looked and he saw that what she 
said was true. It was his city. 

"But I didn't build insides to my build- 
ings/' said he \ " and when did you see what 
I built, anyway ? " 

" The insides are part of the magic, I 
suppose," Lucy said. "And I saw the cities 
you'd built when auntie brought me home 
last night after you'd been sent to bed. And 
I did love them. And, oh, Philip, I'm so 
glad it's Pax, because I do think you're so 
frightfully clever. Auntie thought so too, 
building those beautiful things. And I knew 
nurse was going to pull it all down. I begged 
her not to, but she was addymant, and so I 
got up and dressed and came down to have 
another look by moonlight. And one or two 
of the bricks and chessmen had fallen down. 
I expect nurse knocked them down, so I 
built them up again as well as I could, and I 
was loving it all like anything. Then the 
door opened and I hid under the table and 
you came in." 

" Then you were there. Did you notice 
how the magic began ? " 

" No ; but it all changed to grass, and then 
I saw you a long way off, going up a ladder, 
and so I went after you. But I didn't let 
you see me. I knew you'd be so cross. 
And then I looked in at the guard-room 
door, and I did so want some of the cocoa- 

" When did you find out it was my city?" 

" I thought the soldiers looked like my 
lead ones somehow ; but I wasn't sure till I 
saw the judge. Why, he's just old Noah, out 
of the Ark." 

" So he is," cried Philip. " How wonder- 
ful ! How perfectly wonderful ! I wish we 
weren't prisooers. Wouldn't it be jolly to go 
all over it— into all the buildings, to see what 
the insides of them have turned into ? And 
all the other people — I didn't put them 

"That's more magic, I expect. But . . . 
Oh, we shall find it all out in time." 

She clapped her hands. And on the 
instant the door opened and the jailer 

"A visitor for you," he said, and stood 
aside to let someone else come in — someone 
tall and thin, with a black hooded cloak and 
a black half-mask such as people wear at 

When the jailer had shut the door and 
gone away, the tall figure took off its mask 
and let fall its cloak, showing to the surprised 

but recognizing eyes of the children the well- 
known shape of Mr. Noah, the judge. 

" How do you do ? " he said. " This is a 
little unofficial visit. I hope I haven't come 
at an inconvenient time." 

"Were very glad," said Lucy, "because 
you can tell us " 

" I won't answer questions," said Mr. Noah, 
sitting down stiffly on his yellow mat. " But 
I will tell you something. We don't know 
who you are. But I myself think that you 
may be the deliverers." 

" Both of us ? " said Philip, jealously. 

"One or both. You see, the prophecy 
says that the destroyer's hair is red ; and 
your hair is not red. But before I could get 
the populace to feel sure of that, my own 
hair would be grey with thought and argument. 
Some people are so wooden-headed. And I 
am not used to thinking. I don't often have 
to do it. It distresses me." 

The children said they were sorry. 

Philip added : " Do tell us a little about 
your city. It isn't a question. W 7 e want to 
know if it's magic. That isn't a question, 

" I was about to tell you," said Mr. Noah, 
" and I will not answer questions. Of course 
it is magic. Everything in the world is magic 
until you understand it. And as to the city, 
I will just tell you a little of our history. 
Many thousand years ago all the cities of our 
country were built by a great and powerful 
giant, who brought the materials from far and 
wide. The place was peopled partly by per- 
sons of his choice, and partly by a sort of 
self acting magic rather difficult to explain. 
As soon as the cities were built and the 
inhabitants placed here the life of the city 
began, and it was, to those who lived in it, 
as though it had always been. The artisans 
toiled, the musicians played, and the poets 
sang. The astrologers, finding themselves in 
a tall tower evidently designed for such a 
purpose, began to observe the stars and to 

" I know that part," said Philip. 

"Very well," said the judge. "Then you 
know quite enough. Now I want to ask a 
little favour of you both. Would you mind 
escaping ? " 

"If we only could ! " Lucy sighed. 

"The strain on my nerves is too much," 
said Mr. Noah, feelingly. "Escape, my 
dear children, to please me, a very old man 
in indifferent health and poor spirits." 


<4 °hihft p 'Yp^Wv -^^ j i^i." ^Yp u> my boy ' 

can disguise yourself in your dressing-gown, 



which I see has been placed on yonder chair. 
And I will leave my cloak for you, little girl/' 

Thev both said *' Thank you ! " and Lucy 
added/ 1 ' But how 7" 

"Through the door," said the judge. 
"There h a rule about putting prisoners on 
their honour not to escape, but there have 
not been any prisoners for so long that I 
don't suppose they put you on honour* No? 
You can just walk out of the door. There 
are many charitable persons in the city who 
will help to conceal you. The front-door 
key turns easily, and I myself will oil it as I 
go out. Good-bye ! Thank you so much 
for falling in with my little idea, Accept an 
old man's blessing. Only don't tell the 
jailer ; he would never forgive me," 

He got off his mat, rolled it up, and went 

"Well?" said Lucy, 

"Well?" said Philip. 

" I suppose we go ? " he said. But Lucy 
sard : — 

"What about the jailer? Won't he catch 
it if we bolt ? " 

Philip felt this might be true. It 


the jailer, with feeling; "I had no idea that 
children's voices were so penetrating. Go- 
go — I implore you to escape. Only don't 
tell the judge. I am sure he would never 
forgive me." 

After that, what prisoners would not imme- 
diately have escaped ? 

The two children only waited till the 
sound of the jailer's keys had died away on 
the stairs, to open their door, run down the 
many steps, and slip out of the prison gate. 
They walked a little way in silence. There 
were plenty of people about, but no one 
seemed to notice them* 

"Which way shall we go?" Lucy asked, 
"I wish we'd asked him where the Chari- 
tables live-" 

" I think " Philip began, but Lucy was 

not destined to know what he thought 

There was a sudden shout, a clattering of 
horses 1 hoofs, and all the faces in the square 
turned their way. 

"They've seen us," cried Philip. **Run, 
run, run ! t} 

He himself ran, and he ran towards the 

annoying, and as bad as being put on one's 

11 Bother ! " was what he said 

And theri the jailer came in. He looked 
pale and worried. 

**I am so awfully sorry," he began. "I 
thought I should enjoy having you here, hut 
my nerves are all anyhow. The very sound 
of your voices, I can't write a line. My 
brain reels, L wonder whether you'd be good 
enough to do a little thing for me? Would 
you mind escaping?" 

*' But won't you get into trouble?" 

M Nothing could be worse than this," said 


gate-house that stood at the top of the ladder 
stairs by which they had come up, and behind 
him canrK* the ;li[ uti g and clatter of hot 
purf^^^^^lfl^^in the gateway 
alone, and just as Philip reached the gate the 




captain turned into the guard-room and 
pretended not to see anything. Philip had 
never run so far or so fast. His breath 
came in deep sobs, but he reached the ladder 
and began quickly to go down. It was easier 
than going up, 

He was nearly at the bottom when the 
whole ladder bridge leapt wildly into the air> 
and he fell from it and rolled in the thick 
grass of that illimitable prairie. All about 
him the air was filled with great sounds, like 
the noise of the earthquakes that disturb 
beautiful big palaces and factories which are 
big but not beautiful. It was deafening* it 
was endless, it was unbearable; 

Yet he had to bear that, and more. For 
now he felt a curious swelling sensation in 
his hands, then in his head, then all over. 
It was extremely painful He rolled over in 
his agony, and saw the foot of an enormous 
giant quite close to him. The foot had a 
large, flat, ugly shoe, and seemed to come out 
o f gr e y , 1 o w - h an g i n g, s wa y i ng cu r t ai ns. There 
was a gigantic column, too, black against the 
grey. The ladder bridge cast down lay on 
the ground not far from him. 

Pain and fear overcame Philip, and he 
ceased to hear or feel or know anything. 

When he recovered consciousness he found 
himself under the table in the drawing-room. 

( 71? be continued.) 

The swelling feeling was over t and he did not 
seem to be more than his proper size. 

He could see the flat feet of the nurse and 
the lower part of her grey skirt, and a rattling 
and rumbling on the table above told him 
that she was doing as she had said she 
would, and destroying his city. He saw also 
a black column, which was the leg of the 
table. Every now and then the nurse walked 
away to put back into its proper place some- 
thing he had used in the building, and once 
she stood on a chair and he heard the 
tinkling of the lustre-drops as she hooked 
them into their places on the chandelier. 

" If I lie very still," said he, "perhaps she 
won't see me. But I do wonder how I got 
here. And what a dream to tell Helen 
about ! " 

He lay very still. The nurse did not see 
him. And when she had gone to her break- 
fast Philip crawled out. 

Yes ; the city was gone. Not a trace of it. 
The very tables were back in their proper 

Philip went back to his proper place, which, 
of course, was bed. 

" What a splendid dream ! " he said, as he 
cuddled down between the sheets, u and now 
it's iall over I "original f com 


[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section J and fa pay for such as arc accepted* ] 


THIS Moor was presented to me in Tangier some 
months ago as having the biggest mouth and 
the biggest laugh in the world. I have snapped him 

giving a sample ofTiis roar* IJe is always willing to 
he photographed* and, needless to say, reaps qui le a 
harvest when a parly of tourists come his way, and 
particularly from those who wish for unique snap* 
shots. — Miss Sutcliffe* Gad's Hill, Halifax. 


DURING the South African War a Boer soldier 
named Frank Brown was shot in the frontal 
iimen with a rifle bullet. Strangely enough it did 
not kill him, and after 
the war he secured 
employment on one 
of the T ran silt Ian tic 
steam e rs* \Y h e n m 1 ly 
a year had passed 
he complained of 
trouble in his head, 
and after a thorough 
examination the sur- 
geon of Lhe ship de- 
cided that the bullet, 
which had never l>een 
removed, must be 
extracted* This was 

done. The second and must cm mot di nary of the two 
pictures shows the same man uith a lighted cigarette 
placed in the hole from which the bullet was 
extracted, and drawing the smoke thmugh his nose. — 
Mr, Edward Sudlow, \2 h Hove Street, Hove, Sussex* 


THIS fearsome -looking specimen is not a new 
species of vampire, but is only a fake made 
from various oddments by Mr. J. Mears, a local 

taxidermist. The body is made from the skin of the 
leg of a sheep ; the claws originally l>e longed to a 
starling ; the wings are the feet of a moor hen covered 

with parchment ; the 
head was carved from 
the bung of an old 
barrel; whilst the ears 
are of sheet Lin coated 
with papier mache\ 
Touches of red paint, 
varnish, etc. , over the 
body and head have 
given the object a 
cnost grotesque ap- 
pro ranee. — M r, LX 
Weaker, 13, Mai fort 
K«ad, Denmark Pk-, 





HE accompanying photograph shows a 
mouse and iis nest, which were dis- 
covered underneath the keys of our cottage 




EKE is a photograph of a *' raining tree," which 
_ _ is called by the natives *' Mukolulu." During 
the driest months of the Rhxlesian year— August, 
September, and October— it exudes moisture in large 
drops from its topmost leaves, and gives the traveller 
who happens to be standing in the immediate vicinity 
the impression that a shower of rain is falling. When 
the natives set.* cine of these trees dripping they say, 
t+ The Mukololo is weeping for rain.' 7 At the lime this 
snapshot was taken 11 was a blazing hot 
day, but the tree was weeping copiously. 
— Mr. E. Knowles Jordan, Assistant 
Native Commissioner, Magoy Tank, 
North -Western Rhodesia. 


rHERE are few people who are 
confident of their menial power ; 
fewer who are conscious of their uilt 

piano. The nest w r as made from the green 
baize on which the strikers rest t and the 
mouse had a larder below containing several 
pieces of dog ■ biscuit, two unstruck was 
vestas, and a chicken bone ! The /mw 
was in dtzily usf, — Mr, Alex. IX I ferries, 
Spoltes, Dalbeattie, N.l>. 


FOLLOWING the seizure of some Chinese liquor, 
the notice herewith was sent round to all 
the hotels here, I think your readers will agree with 
me that il is well worthy of preservation in your 
pages. — Mr. W, Sym onds t King Edward Hotel, 


power j and still fewer who can bring 
into play their will power whenever 
occasi on dem a nds it. H e re is an exercise 
for some of those who count too much 
upon their capacity to concentrate their 
will power on a particular thing. Let 
them try to write the two foregoing 
figures on the floor, one with the 
index finger of the right hand and the 
other with that of the left. They must 
try to perform both the operations at 
the same time* The resuK will prob- 
ably surprise them considerably. — Mr. 
C S, Sweta, Durggagoshtom/Chittur- 
Patghat, Madras Presidency, India. 




The true! seizure of Chines liquor Under the *illv 
Misiiucjion of tbe Ht-nd of th^ Lir|tiur Ueparliiiunl, who 
ba- entirely no Knowledge of Arronging, Doing; 
Rt-coinmcrMliiio; or Writing suiylhing whntrver except 
Shooting Gaines. 

H? misunderstood wh;it he had been advised how- 
to do legally but only know to jpve wwug disorderly 
ijiatructmii hi seize liquor which he nlwnv> (Jrrmk in 
Offifeand is thereby depreciated by Public n"viinsi hi& 

U there any Wiae Eurupeuo Cadet who am he 
appointed in lieu of h'wni 

Yom* truly 





N Ihe church at Ste> Anne de Beaupre, near 
Quebec, Canada* may be seen a large collection 
of crutches and surgical instrument, They have all 
been left there by pilgrims, who claim to have been 
cured by the intercession of Sle. Anne.— J. R. t St, 
George's, Bermuda. 


HIS is an addition sum : — 

B E A C F I 

What is required is that figures be substituted for the 
letters* and prove the sum correct. Solutions next 
month. — Mr, Horace We kx! ley, 86, Aldborough Road, 
Seven Kings, Essex. 


THIS jackdaw, 
which is per- 
fectly pure white with 
the exception of black 
on the beak, was one 
of a brood of bfa<k 
jackdaws hatched in 
the tower on the town 
wall of Rastenberg, 
in Thuringia. The 
parent birds were 
shot by boys, and 
the white nestling was 
rescued by a peasant 
woman, from whom 
Mr. Tanqueray 
Irougbt him* The 
jackdaw is very lame, 
amusing, and affec- 
tionate. — Mrs, Tan- 
que ray, English Chaplaincy, 
Weimar, Germany. 


T first glance many 
would think that 
the accompanying picture 
was a very characteristic 
portrait of a cat. Vet if 
you hold it upside down 
quite another portrait 
comci to light. It will 
be seen that the points of 
the collar form the cat's 
ears, while the man's eye- 
brows serve very well as 
feet. — Mr. W. Franklin, 
Fire Station, Poplar, 

Gartenstrasse 27, 

A 1 


r I ^ H E curious faces 
J. seen in the 
accompanying photo- 
graph are all carved 
i>0 hickory nuts, and 
I hope that Mr. Roose- 
velt and Mr. Bryan, 
who occupy the centre 
of the picture, will 
be easily recognized. 
Carving hickory nuts 
is not so easy as some 
people might think, 
but I feel that the 
results well repay the 
lime and trouble cx- 
p e n d e d * — Mr. 
George I 1 . Riggs, Si. 
Mary's, West Virginia, 
US- A. 

* P|PSl LlNll"'l«- FWICHl V 

2 .;S 



ON a recently -erected dwelling in the suburbs nf 
Manchester an enterprising builder, with more 
regard, perhaps, to ornamentation than accuracy, has 


THIS is a photograph of a silver watch, gold 
chain j seal, and key embedded in a human 
elbow joint. They were fount! on the Great Bur bo 
Rink, off Liverpool, on the 22nd of last March, 
Competent authorities estimate the watch and chain 
to l>e at least a hundred and twenty years old, arid 
consider that they must have remained for 
seventy years where 
they were found. — Mr. 
Robert Lloyd, Royal 
Rock Vaults, Red ford 
Road, Rock Ferry, 


^ novelties of all 
kinds alwa\s appeal 
to readers of your 
* * Cu r i os i t ies " pa ges, 
I urn sending you a 
reproduction of a 
picture, the frame of 
which is, I think, 
something quite out 
of the common. This 
frame is an invention 
of my own, and, as 
will be seen, consists 
of a great variety of 
miscellaneous objects, 
which are fixed to the 
WH">od by means of 
cement. — Mr. 11. L. 
F. Vanger, Kebon- 
Sajorc zS, Uaiavia, 

set out in wood and plaster, as shown, a quite original 
rendering in Roman numerals of the date of the past 
year— 1909. The correct version, of course, should 
be mcmix.— Mr. Felix Crook, 3, Clarendon Avenue, 
Heaton Moor, SLockport, 




SHALL always carry deeply 
engraven on my memory the 
night of the 6th of February, 
1886. For on that night, far 
away from civilization, on the 
then deserted Assiniboia prairie 
I lost a dear comrade and found— a cow ! 

My comrade had succumbed to the 
exposure and hardships to which we had 
been subjected for seven months. The rail- 
way was just built, but we had been obliged 
to tramp on foot from Regina to the section 
which we had resolved to work. Winter had 
overtaken us too soon ; it found as almost 
at the end of our resources. My comrade, 
James Edwards, who hailed from Birming- 
ham, had a strange fancy just before he 
died* He thought there 
was an Indian eacht 
down at Bell Creek, 
After telling me the 
exact spot where it was, 
he made me promise 
I would go at once 
and look for it. The 
cache was sure to con- 
tain hidden pemmican 
or other provisions. 

Words can scarcely 
express my emotions 
when my comrade 
finally breathed his last. 

I ought to explain that my nearest neighbour 
was fourteen miles away. The solitude was 
immense — overpowering. I lit the lantern, 
and about nine o'clock walked out in the 
snow a mile and a half to Bell Creek. Of 
course, I hadn't the slightest expectation of 
finding a cache. The idea seemed extrava- 
gant, but I felt I owed it to my friend to keep 
the promise I had made him. 

As I drew near the creek a muffled sound 
struck my ear, seeming to come from the 
depths of a snowdrift on the far side of the 
creek, I crossed on the ice; the mysterious 
sound was repeated, and I then clearly dis- 
tinguished a bovine ll moo " — very faint and 
gurgling; but having made two trips on a 


cattle-boat with sick cattle I was not likely 
to be mistaken. I went straight to the spot, 
found a deep hole in one of the drifts, 
crawled in, and there— lying amongst frag- 
ments of boulder and brushwood gnawed 
down to the roots — was a brown- and- white 
Ayrshire cow. 

Now, there are many explanations con^ 
cerning that cow — reasonable explanations. 
One is that it had strayed from Middleton's 
ranch, twenty one miles away. But against 
that theory is the fact that Middlcton some 
days later ordered a round up and not one of 
the herd was missing. Besides, all Middleton's 
cattle bore bis brand, and this had none at 
all, I have my own private opinion concern- 
ing that cow, and reason cannot shake it. 
Years afterwards, at 
the hotel in Calgary, I 
listened to a man tell 
a whole bar-room full 
of people the story of 
Bail lies i( fairy cow," 
so I suppose the notion 
I entertained in the 
back part of my mind 
became pretty generally 

Although the cow 
was then too weak to 
stand, I soon collected 
some fodder and 
pulled her round. In three days 1 had her 
installed in a brushwood shack up against 
my provisional farm-house built of mud and 
logs. Meanwhile, I had placed the body of 
my dead friend in a rude pine box, and 
stowed it away in a drift against the time 
when I could bury it in the spring* The 
cow and I chummed up during the next two 
months, at the end of which time a half-breed 
told me that on a certain day they were 
making up a cattle -train at Chaplin, so 1 
resolved to drive her down to the railway 
and ship my cow with the rest to Regina in 
exchange for seed-corn, vegetables, and pro- 
visions- It ^ftHtftya l&P fibi>e. 

At tMVIft^T?g^-tt&H^.HJea that my 

- -j 




row was with calf. I made this discovery 
after I had readied the railway and was 
hanging about waiting for the cattle to 
come along, All day long I waited. About 
half- past five, while I was lounging in a 
shack left by the construction gang of the 
railway, with my cow tethered outside, I 
heard a trampling noise, and half-a-dozen 
ranchers, with sixty or eighty head of cattle in 
tow, hove in sight. They told me they were 
going to ship their cattle 10 Winnipeg, and 
that there was plenty of time to get the cattle 
into the empty trucks, as the train would not 
be along till nine that night. We sat there, 
smoking and drinking and chatting, I telling 
them of my rough luck and my prospects and 
not thinking at all about the train, when 
suddenly we all heard a fearful stampede out- 
side. We ran out and found the locomotive 
pulled up in the middle of the herd, the 
driver and conductor swearing, and three of 
the animals lying helplessly on the ground 
with broken limbs, As Fate would have it, 
one of them was my cow. Here was a pretty 
situation. 1 was for a moment in despair 
when a rancher, whose name was Rogers, 
began to laugh. 

"YouVe in luck," he said. "Cheer up! 
You don't know the Q P + R + That butchered 
cow of yours is good for forty dollars 
compensation. Enter a claim at once." 

14 But," said I, " that means a long delay, 
and, perhaps, a disputed claim. No, luck's 
against me." 

" Nonsense, man," he rejoined. "Ill get 
compensation for my smashed steers, and if 

you like 111 take over yours. There are 
plenty of witnesses, and, besides, the engineer 
admits running into, the herd when he had 
orders to slow up and watch out for them 
here. So sure am I of the business that I'll 
give you an order on the Hudson Ray 
Company stores at Regina for twenty dollars 
on account, with pleasure. I know the 
conductor, and iT you'll say what you want 
I'll see you get 'em by the next West-bound 

In a few minutes the cattle were loaded 
into the trucks, but for some reason or other 
the carcass of my cow was left behind. This 
disconcerted me, as I thought it might 
possibly interfere with my claim P Still, there 
was several hundredweight of beef, I ex 
amrned it at close quarters with the aid of my 
lantern, and to my surprise discovered that, so 
fin from being dead or dying, my cow was 
very much alive. It was, in fact, only 
stunned by the cow-catcher, and after a time 
got upon its legs, none the worse, so far as I 
could see, for its adventure* I hung about 
for twelve hours, munching my slender store 
of biscuit and pern rn Scan. Rogers kept his 
promise. The West- bound slowed up and 
pitched off two crates of biscuits, corned 
beef, and a sack of potatoes — in all twenty 
dollars' worth of provisions. 

Thus enabled to tide over the critical 
spring period, I got back to my section with 
my cow again, A half breed dad promised 
to come and help me with his horse in 
ploughing an.4 sowing time. We worked like 
Trojans, and had just sown ten acres with all 




the seed I had, when three things happened : 
the first was that my cow calved, the second 
was that it produced twin calves, and the 
third was that Rogers himself rode ovtr from 
his ranch to say that^ in view of the circum- 
stances, the railway had allowed sixty dollars 
compensation. Would I have it in cash or 
outfit ? 

I was a good deal taken aback, and, not 
answering at once, he said .— 

*' Hut, halloa 3 I see you've got another 
cow. With calves, too, I thought you 

II No t " I replied. u You might as well have 
the truth, I'm in rather a fix about it. It's 
not another cow I have ; it's the same cow/ 1 

He was almost knocked over with surprise. 

"There's some 
mystery here/* he said. 
" I helped to load the 
carcass of that cow 
into the truck myself. 
I remember its mark- 

"I dare say/ 1 I re- 
torted ; "but that cow 
there isn't like other 
cows — it's a fairy cow." 

And I honestly 
believed it was. That 
cow laid the founda- 
tion of my fortunes* 
Although I accepted 
the remuneration for 
its supposed violent 
death then, in order 
to tide me over my 
first season, the books 
of the Canadian Pacific 
Railway Company will 
show the return, three 
years later, of the com- 
pensation money. I 
prospered on my 
section, hiring Sioux 
hilniun rs at harvest- 
time, and in 1889 I 
owned twenty head of 
cattle. In 1^92 I sold 
my Bell Creek farm 
and moved westwards 
to the Bow River, on 
a ranch for which 
I paid twenty - seven 
hundred dollars cash 
To this ranch I took 
only a single head of 

my Bell Creek live stock — my "fairy cow," 
which survived for twelve years, and whose 
stuffed head and horns are now mounted over 
the chimney-piece of my house on the Baillie 
Ranch. She died of old age in 1898, I 
duly buried my first pal, Edwards, close to 
Bell Creek, where, when dying, the poor 
fellow had had a vision of an Indian cache* 
and I put a proper tombstone over his head* 
It was a pity that he was so delicate in consti- 
tution, or he would have survived to share in 
such prosperity as I have enjoyed as a farmer 
and rancher in the North -West, What would 
have happened to me at a critical juncture 
had I not found my cow I tremble to think, 
for conditions were different and distances 
long in Assiniboia twenty-five years ago. 


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l I 

■ . : 

WAD AYS everyone is familiar 
with the Tasmanian apple. A 
crisp, firm fruit such as that must 
come from a climate very like 
England And such a climate, 
indeed, is that of Tasmania, 
only that the winter there is less cold, there 
is no fog, and, excepting on the West Coast, 
there is less ram than in England. It is an 
ideal spot to work out a future and make 
one's home, or for those to settle who, having 
retired from a life in the tropics, find the 
English winter too cold or damp 5 or their 
means just short of the mark that spells 
comfort in the old country. 

Started less than twenty 
years ago, not without dis- 
couragement until the ques- 
tion of cold storage had 
been thoroughly mastered^ 
apple * growing has made 
Steady but rapid progress. It 
is now not only a very profit* 
able industry when under- 
taken on a considerable 
scale by firms who give it 
their sole attention, and also 
by small growers who have 
had but a few pounds 
capital, and have cleared 
and planted the ground with 
their own labour, but beyond 

these to professional men 
in Hobart and Launceston 
(the two large towns of 
Tasmania } T either singly or 
tn small syndicates. These 
latter of late years have 
taken up ground and gone 
in for orcharding, and find 
that it gives an additional 
interest to life, adds largely 
to their income, and gives 
them a safe investment for 
the future. I mention this 
as showing the attractive- 
ness of the industry Surely, 
then f it may well be worth 
while for the Anglo-Indian 
who has many years yet of 
good work before him and 
sons growing up, or for the 
able man with a few hun- 
dred pounds and two strong 
arms, to consider wheLher it is not worth 
while looking more closely into this matter. 

The acreage under apples is little over 
20,000, and the value of the exports has 
risen to ^400,000, That there are many 
times this acreage of ground suitable for 
planting and within the radius of cheap 
transport has been carefully ascertained. But 
whilst It is an immensely profitable under* 
taking, the careful man will at once ask, w Is 
it not likely to be overdone ? ir This does 
not appear to be possible for many years, if 
ever ; and, furthermore, the margin of profit 
is so excellent that it remains profitable 

pick in 



even should a serious falling off in prices 

temporarily occur. The early autumn in 

Tasmania is as our early spring, so that 

the apples reach England in April, May, 

June, and July, when no country other 

than the Australian States can compete. 

England s consumption of apples increases 

yearly, and as yet does not mean much more 

than an apple or two apiece all round. 

Again, there is the vast Continental market 

to be tapped, and Germany has already begun 

to show its appreciation, For the big Hamburg 

liners have called 

at Ho bar t for cases 

during the past two 

years. Having 

satisfied ourselves 

about the available 

land and the cer- 

t a i n t y of the 

markets, let us look 

into the methods, 

costs, and profits. 

There are two 
ways of going in 
for apple growing, 
namely : ( i ) buy- 
ing an already 
planted orchard, 
and {2) taking the 
rough ground and 
clearing and plant- 
ing it oneself — in 
other words, 
making an orchard. 
If one can make 
sure of securing a 

really good producing orchard, then it is 
possible to get some 15 per cent, return for 
money. That is to say, ^2,000 expended 
would yield ^300 annually — this is on the 
recognized basis far valuation, Tiut an oppor- 
tunity for such a purchase might have to 
be waited for. Obviously properties with 
ill-selected trees or having some fault of 
situation are always obtainable, hut there 
are many ways of finding out the value of an 
orchard. There is, however, another class 
of property to be secured, I believe, which 
might suit certain buyers, and that is ground 
taken up by enterprising people — cleared, 
prepared, planted, fenced, and a house 
erected. The orchard is not producing, but 
it is at least a couple of years nearer the 
producing stage. 

Between the apple trees, raspberries, black- 
berries, and strawberries are often grown 
and sold for jam-making— this last being 

a Tasmanian industry exporting close on 
;£ 100,000 a year. Of these small fruits, 
strawberries have the double advantage 
of the best market and that their manuring 
benefits the apple trees also* The apple 
trees in the North have an appreciable crop 
in the fifth year and increase up to the 
tenth year. 

When once the yield begins, you have got 
to provide cases to ship the fruit. The cost 
per bushel case is about sixpence, and the 
total wood used in Tasmania for fruit cases 

HL ^B 



alone exceeds 8,000,000 feet. " Grading " 
the fruit is easily learned, and in this it 
pays well to be very careful and honest 
Each apple in Tasmania is wrapped in paper. 
In the last two operations a man, if married, 
can get much help from his wife and 
children and save considerable expense. 
Marketing, there is no trouble. Generally, 
the apples are delivered to the buyer in 
La unrest on or Hobart, who pays 4 s, per 
bushel or case. This buyer arranges with 
the shipping companies, and chances the 
price in London, the average paid in Covent 
Garden being ios. to 11s. lUiycrs some 
times deal for the apples on the trees, and 
undertake the picking, packing, and trans 
port ; they then, of course, pay proportion- 
ately less per bushel. The apple merchants 
buy for the English, German, and Australian 
markets besides the local Shiploads up to 
100,000 cases hav^ been sent at one time, 



Timber-Cutting in British Columbia. 

IlXT to her great treasury of 
minerals the most readily avail- 
able, if not the most important, 
of British Columbia's natural 
resources is her immense timber 
reserve, British Columbia may 
now be said to possess the greatest compact 
area of merchantable timber on the North 
American continent, and if it had not been 
for the great forest fires that have raged in 
the interior in the years gone by, during 
which a very large portion of the surface has 
been denuded of its forests, the available 


supply would have been much greater than 
it is. This was an exigency which, in the 
unsettled state of the country, could hardly 
have been provided against, if at all. How 
ever, as the coast districts possess the major 
portion of the choice timber and that which 
is most accessible, the ravages of fire have not 
had, by reason of the dense growth and the 
humidity of the climate, any appreciable 
effect on that source of supply. 

As far north as Alaska the coast is heavily 
timbered, the forest line following the indents 
and river valleys and fringing the mountain 

sides. Logging operations so far have ex- 
tended to Knight's Inlet, a point on the 
coast of the mainland opposite the north 
end of Vancouver Island. Here the Douglas 
fir, the most important and widely dispersed 
of the valuable trees, disappears altogether, 
and the cypress, or yellow cedar, takes iu 
place. North of this, cedar, hemlock, and 
spruce are the priocipal timber trees, It 
will be of interest to know that Douglas fir 
{Pseudatsuga Douglas it) was named after 
David Douglas, a noted botanist who ex- 
plored New Caledonia in the early twenties 
of last century. It is a 
very widely -distributed 
tree, being found from 
the coast to the summit 
of the Rocky Moun- 
tains, and as far east as 
Calgary and as far north 
as Fort McLeod* On 
the coast it attains 
immense proportions, is 
very high and clear of im- 
I^rfections, sometimes 
towering three hundred 
feet in the air, and 
having a base circum- 
ference of from thirty 
to fifty feet. The best 
averages, however, arc 
one hundred and fifty 
feet clear of limbs and 
five to six feet in 
diameter, This is the 
staple timber of com- 
merce, often classed by 
the trade as Oregon 
pine. It has about the 
same specific gravity as 
oak, with great strength, 
and has a wide range of usefulness, being 
especially adapted for construction work. It 
is scientifically described as standing midway 
between the spruce and the balsam, and is 
a valuable pulp- making tree. 

Of the Douglas fir Professor Macoun says : 
41 It is the most abundant, as it is the most 
valuable, tree in British Columbia, Its range 
on the mainland is from the International 
Boundary north to the Skeena River, in 
latitude 54 degrees, on the coast, and in the 
Rocky Mountains from the International 
Boundary hot lb La latitude 55 degrees, though 





its northern and north-eastern limits are not 

well defined. It is not found in the Queen 

Charlotte Islands. It attains its greatest size 

on Vancouver Island, or along the shores and 

in river valleys near the coast on the mainland. 

There trees three hundred feet in height are 

not rare, the average height of those felled for 

lumber being over one hundred and fifty feet, 

Trees of a greater diameter than seven feet 

are rarely cut, though those of eight, ten, 

or even eleven feet in diameter are not rare. 

The fact that the largest 

trees are found near the 

coast greatly facilitates 

the transport of the logs 

from the woods to the 

mill; and, as the majority 

ofthemillsare so situated 

(hat the largest ships may 

load within a few yards 

of the saws, the cost per 

thousand feet of handling 

Douglas fir and other 

West Coast lumber is 


The future of the lum- 
ber industry in British 
Columbia is very pro- 
mising. Several causes 

have recently operated ^ TNG 


favourably, and the industry as a 
whole has greatly revived. As the 
result of the return of general pros- 
perity, both local and foreign demand 
has materially increased. The most 
important factor, however, is the 
filling up of Manitoba and the Terri- 
tories with settlers. That and the 
prosperity enjoyed in the prairie 
country through a series of successful 
wheat crops have created a great 
market for lumber and the manufac- 
tures of lumber there, and to supply 
that demand lumbermen are in the 
most favourable ]>osition. Recently 
the price of rough lumber increased 
j£i per thousand, while a good 
market for shingles, heavy timbers, 
and all classes of lumber has been 
found in Eastern Canada, In fact, 
the shingle industry during the past 
two or three years has been experi- 
encing a "boom." Several of the 
big lumber companies are enlarging 
their plants, and logging is being 
actively carried on to provide for 
the increased cut One Vancouver 
mill has doubled its capacity, at a 
cost of ^£30,000. Capitalists from 
Eastern Canada and the United States 
are reported to be investing largely in 
timber limits on the coast and in the 

As to the amount of capital invested 
in lumbering in British Columbia, a con- 
servative estimate places the aggregate at 
over a million sterling, represented by mills, 
logging plants, logging railways, tug- boats, 
etc., and exclusive of the value of lands 
purchased and leased as timber limits. 

™* L ^f$iHW-ti(me:N 

Overseas Wit &ad Huam©w 8 

A Prize of One Guinea is offered to readers of "The Strand Magazine" for the most Humorous Joke or 
Anecdote relating to life in the Colonies. They should be addressed to the Editor, Overseas Supplement. 

" \A/ HAT makeS ° ld Chief Son -° fa " Gun 
* * so happy to-night ?" asked one 

VVinnipegger of another. 

" Oh," was the reply, " he robbed a travel- 
ling opera troupe last night and scooped a 
portmanteau full of wigs. He thinks they're 

XA/HEN Cobalt was first started as a 

* * mining town, an enterprising caterer 
fitted up a neat shanty which he called 
" The Union Jack Corn Beef Emporium." 
Here, on paying the fixed price of twenty- 
five cents, a customer could cut off a round 
of excellent salt beef, which he might eat, 
as the French say, d discretion. A burly 
prospector noted as a gourmand took 
advantage of the permission, and when the 
landlord's eye fell upon the round he saw it 
had dropped several storeys nearer the plate. 

"Nice round this, landlord," said the 
guest, cheerily. " Capital idea, too — cut and 
come again." 

" Just so," rejoined the proprietor. " I see 
how well you can cut, but I'll be darned if 
you'll ever come again." 

NjOT long ago an old pioneer, who had lived 
* ^ in Australia in the days of the early 
colonists, was boasting of the good old times. 

" Why, sir, I was once offered a league of 
land for a pair of boots." 

" Didn't you take it ? " said the party 

" No, sir, I didn't." 

" Poor land, I suppose ? " 

" Why, bless your heart, sir, it was the 
best land for miles round. Grass five feet 
high," etc., etc. 

" Well, why ever didn't you take it ? " 

" Because," said the old man, in a regretful 
tone of voice, " I hadn't got the boots." 

"THEY tell Ihis story of a new arrival in 

* the New Zealand capital. 

" You know Timmid, of course? Yes? 
Well, did you know he had lately taken to 
riding as a pastime ? " 

" Oh, yes ; I saw him in the act this 

" How does he look in the saddle ? " 

" Couldn't say. When he passed the house 
he wasn't in the saddle enough to give me a 
chance to judge." 

A WHITE man travelling along a river road 
** in Jamaica came upon an old darky and 
a little one sitting on the bank fishing. 

Grown weary waiting for a bite the little 
darky was nodding, and suddenly tumbled 
off the bank into the river. The old darky 
threw down his pole and jumped in after him. 

He pulled him out t caught him by the 
feet and drained the water out of him, turned 
him over and set him down with a thump, 
and said : — 

" Now wake up an' set dar, you lazy little 
rascal, an* don't you fall in dat water 
no mo'." 

The white man, who had stopped, said 
admiringly : — 

" That was a very brave act, old man — the 
boy is your son, I suppose ? " 

" No," said the old dorky, indignantly, 
" de little rascal ain't no kin to me, but he 
mout jist as well ? er been. He had all de 
bait in his pocket." 

A FACT. -Wellington (N.Z.).— Master (to 
** class) : *' Now, Jones, tell me how many 
seasons there are." 

Jones : " In England ? " 

Master : "Yes, yes." 

Jones : " Two." 

Master : " Only two ? Name them." 

Jones: "The cricket and the football 

A DUTCHMAN in the Transvaal, who 
** was in the habit of dealing with an 
itinerant Jewish vender, came to the con- 
clusion, after many months of deliberation, 
that he was being cheated. On paying a 
visit to Pretoria he purchased a ready- 
reckoner, and found, as he suspected, he had 
been overcharged very considerably. Very 
irate, he waited for the pedlar, and when he 
made his next appearance he said : — 

" Go away ; I will not buy from you. 
You are not a good man ; you cheat." 
" How do you make that out ? " 
" Oh, I know. See, I have a ready- 

" Let me have a look at it. Why, this is 
last year's ready-reckoner ; that's no good 
for this year." 

" Well, so it is, I never thought of that" 
And thick-witted Jan allowed himself to 
be fleeced again by the wiiy Hebrew. 

(""rw^nL'' Original from 



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[Sm page z6j r ) 

Original from 


Vol. xxxix. MARCH, 191a No 231. 

<&y- Money ^Roberta 

T was a fine winter evening 
when James Pullen put on 
his new fur overcoat and left 
the hotel at Knightsbridge 
to walk towards Hyde Park 
Corner. He was a pros- 
perous writer, a comfortable creature at 
all times, and he had dined quietly by 
himself in order to think over a new story. 
He was at peace with al\, the world, and 
meant to have a happy hour or two at his club 
in Dover Street before he went on at eleven 
o'clock to a promiscuous crush at a house 
which took a writer at his own valuation. 

When Pullen went in the club it was pretty 
full, for Friday night was their gayest time. 
Members were expected to turn up that day 
and bring someone interesting, for the 
Nucleus Club prided itself on being interest- 
ing and adventurous at any price. 

" I couldn't bring anyone to-night as I'm 
going early," said Pullen, as he hung up his 
coat. He spoke to a Dr. Palethorpe, who 
wrote books on criminology and was a 
consulting physician. 

" Never mind," said Palethorpe, " I've got 
a very remarkable Johnny coming. He'll be 
especially interesting to you." 

"Why to me?" asked Pullen. 

" Because he's like you," replied the doctor. 

"What is he?" 

"A Russian." 

" And his business ? " 

" A mystery," said Palethorpe. 

" A mystery ! Does he write ? n 

" Reports," said Palethorpe. 

"What kind of reports?" 
Vol. XXXU.-39. 

" On criminals," said Palethorpe. 

" Very interesting," returned Pullen. 

" Here he comes," said Palethorpe. 

They were standing in the entrance hall, 
and Pullen looked curiously at the stranger. 
With his curiosity there was mingled some 
hostility. Everyone resents a double, and it 
was certain, even to Pullen, that the Russian 
resembled him in a striking manner. He was 
so occupied with the stranger's face that he 
did not notice that he wore a fur overcoat like 
his own. And he did not notice either that 
when Palethorpe helped the Russian to take 
off his coat he made him hang it next to 

"This is my friend, Mr. Lermontoff, 
Pullen," said Palethorpe. 

They went into the smoking-room, which 
was pretty full of men all talking at once. 
But Pullen was somewhat depressed. He 
felt as if a shadow had fallen on him. Ler- 
montoff was the shadow. Pullen went into 
a corner and picked up a paper, and read 
vaguely something about Russians. The word 
" rouble " stuck in his mind. 

" How much is a rouble ? " he asked 
himself. And he picked up the paper again. 
The paragraph was about a Russian gang 
of forgers, who were reported to have been 
making very fine hundred-rouble notes. They 
had been arrested, or some of them had, and 
one called Marcovitch had committed suicide. 
They were said to be Nihilists or Anarchists. 

Palethorpe introduced Lermontoff to 
several of the members. 

" Mysterious be^r and very like Pullen," 






Lemiontoff talked English well and very 

"Get him on crime,*' whispered Palethorpe, 
who evidently regarded Lemiontoff as a find 
of his own, and was proud of him, 

"Do you know much about Nihilists?" 
asked Pullen, who had rejoined them. 

Lemiontoff said modestly that he knew a 
little about them, " But for the most part 
those w + ho call themselves such are criminals 
pure and simple," he added. 

"What crimes do they affect?" asked 

" Robbery, forgery, all sorts of games," 
replied the Russian. 

"I wish I'd your experience of life," said 

"Don't wish it," said LermontofT, "I 
should like peace. I've something to do 
that's not peaceful to-night." 

They asked 
him what it was, 
but instead of 
replying he told 
them a story, and 
told it well 

" I was reading 
in the paper just 
now about a 
Russian gang 01 
forgers," said 

" Ah ! I saw it, 
too," said Ver- 
mont off, quietly. 
"I think one man 
shot himself, 
didn't he?" 

"Yes," said 

"They're a 
vicious lot," said 
the Russian; 
" very revengeful. 
Our police take 
their lives in their 
hands in dealing 
with them." 

(l They didn't 
get them all 
apparently," said 

" No ; so I 
understood," said 
Lemiontoff; "but 
they will — prob- 
ably. There's no 
such sport as 
hunting men." 
Presently it struck eleven, and Pullen got 
up and said good-bye. 

" Yes, he's like me, very like me, I 
suppose," said Pullen, as he went into the 
halL As it happened, there was no waiter 
handy, so he put on his coat by himself. 
Or, rather, he thought that he did. He put 
on Lerm on toff's instead. They were exactly 
alike ; the same size, the same fur. There 
was a newspaper in the inside pocket That 
night Pullen had bought the Pall Mali 
Gazette^ and found a review of his latest 
book in it. He went out into the street 
thinking of the Russian. 

The night was not so fine when he went 
OUt The streets were quiet save for the rush 
of cabs. That year was the first of the flitting 
taxi cab. One seemed to chase Pullen along 
Dover Street, It nearly ran him down as he 

^BSfv^WWiita 4 The driver 



pulled up suddenly and said : " Very sorry, 

It seemed to Pullen that the man spoke 
with a foreign accent, and that was as strange 
as if a bus-driver came from Germany. A man 
leapt from the cab when it stopped — almost 
before it stopped. It seemed to Pullen that 
he leapt at him. 

" Oh, all right," said Pullen. This was to 
the driver. But he stepped back on the 
pavement as the man who had left the cab 
ran to him. 

" I — I beg your pardon," said Pullen, rather 

" Lermontoff ! " said the stranger. 

That was odd ; undoubtedly it was very 
odd, and Pullen started. He scented some 
thing, some danger perhaps. Perhaps he 
should have said, " Who's Lermontoff, pray?" 
Instead of that he said : — 

"What of him ?* 

This was an adventure in its very beginning. 
Or here it came up into the light out of 
the mystery in which such adventures are 
begotten. Yet this was Dover Street ; he 
was within call of Piccadilly, close to his own 
club. Nevertheless, he shivered and wondered 
if he was equal to an encounter with any 
terror that walked by night. He had never 
been tried ; he had lived in shelter, in 
the paths where fancy goes lightly among 

" You're not equal," said Pullen's soul to 
him. And Pullen did not know whether his 
soul, which cowered within him for that 
moment, was right or not. 

" You'll come with me, Lermontoff," said 
the stranger. Pullen saw the shining barrel 
of a revolver in the man's right hand He 
thrust it right against Pullen's ribs just under 
his heart, and held him by the coat — the coat 
that was not his. 

" I'm not Lermontoff," said Pullen, in a 
harsh, dry voice, which he did not recognize. 
What kind of life did Lermontoff lead ? He 
had said, " There's no such sport as hunting 
men." Pullen's idea was that the Russian 
spoke of war, but perhaps he did not — 
not of war in the open field. What about 
being hunted by men ? 

The stranger laughed and Pullen felt a 
sudden horrible inclination to laugh as well. 
But the laugh died ; it was but a motion of 
his throat, a dry cackle of fear. The man he 
feared spoke to the driver in a language 
Pullen did not know, and yet he knew it was 
Russian. The driver turned sideways, looked 
at Pullen, and made a click with his lips and 
teeth such as one makes to a horse. Then 

he nodded, while Pullen looked at him open- 
mouthed with a paralyzed tongue. 

44 Get into the cab," said the stranger, " or 
I'll shoot you through the heart, Lermontoff." 

The barrel of the revolver was against 
Pullen's ribs ; it hurt him. 

" Believe me," said the man, " I'm Sergius 
Marcovitch's brother." 

Marcovitch ! One of the Russian gang of 
forgers had been called that. 

" Look here," said Pullen, swiftly, " you're 
wrong. Lermontoff is close here, in my club. 
Palethorpe brought him — Dr. Palethorpe. 
I'm not Lermontoff. Go and see — see, 
oh, do ! " 

" Not a yard will I go ! " said Marcovitch, 
the brother of Marcovitch. " Get in ! " 

44 1— I won't !" said Pullen, thickly. 

But he did. It was very strange to him 
even as he got in. Why did he get in ? 
Why didn't he call out and scream, or catch 
hold of Marcovitch ? He sat down heavily, 
and Marcovitch sat opposite him, armed, 
savage, cynical, triumphant. Pullen opened 
his left hand and beat the palm with his 

44 I'm not Lermontoff. I'm James Pullen. 
I — I write stories," said Pullen. 

44 Lermontoff, you have many names," said 
Marcovitch. "But perhaps you'll write no 

44 You're wrong — so wrong," urged Pullen. 
44 He's in my club now. I spoke to him. 
Dr. Palethorpe brought him." 

Marcovitch giggled. It seemed the 
horridest sound Pullen had ever heard. 
There was something so unnatural in it 
Pullen was being laughed at when he was 
in deadly earnest 

44 1 thought you had courage, Lermontoff. 
But your nerve's gone," said Marcovitch. 

Pullen felt mad, felt that possibly he was 
Lermontoff after all His world crumbled 
about him. 

44 But you're a cur," said Marcovitch. 
44 You sent some of us to death. My 
brother, my brother ! But you fear death." 

"Yes, yes," said Pullen. "Why not? 
Oh, it's so ridiculous ! I'm Pullen — James 
Pullen — and I'm well known, very well 
known. I've a great reputation. You must 
have heard of me, of James Pullen ! " 

James Pullen was become a monstrously 
important person — a person the world would 
miss. He had a novel half finished — a novel 
with adventure in it. There was blood spilt 
in it That was merely red ink now. But it 
was, Pullen said, a fine book. He thought 





"Lermontoff! " said Marcovitch, scoffing. 

Pull en wrung his hands, waggled them 
feebly, and beat them together. He struggled 
to speak convincingly; but how could he in 
such a dream? So he spoke at random. 

11 If you think I'm Lermontoff, are you not 
surprised ? M he asked. 

" At what, spy ? " asked Marco v'tch. 

" At — at my being so — easy/' said Pullen. 

M So easy ? ?) 

44 Yes, to take— like this ? " said Pullen, 

Marcovitch had been surprised, very much 
surprised, and also much relieved. But he 
had no spare attention for any of his 
thoughts. Perhaps this Lermontoff was 
playing and would suddenly break out on 
him, becoming what all men thought him. 

44 You've been very easy," said Marcovitch, 

No one liked to hear that of himself. 

u lm an Knglishmaiv said Pullen. 

In romance all Englishmen were brave« 

That was a trick 
of romance, when 
it dealt with chief 
characters, Pullen 
could not have 
written a story 
without making 
his hero English 
and utterly brave, 
equal to all things. 
To give him the 
natural tremors, 
t h e weak nesses, t he 
moments of 
despair and doubt 
the bravest have, 
would have 
seemed disloyal 
In fact, he wrote 
about unrealities, 
about non-existent 
men, about things 
theatrical in a 
paper theatre 
Romance blinded 
his eyes to life, to 
real things, to the 
things one has to 
take into account, 
which are the 

" Life's not what 

I thought it," said 

Pullen. So he 

went on thinking, 

and also he went 

on talking. But his talk was like foam on a 

fast river ; it meant nothing in itself — it was 

but a sign of disturbance, of flood. 

44 You're losing your man," said Pullen ; 
41 he's in my club. Dr. Palethorpe's with 
him* And you think I'm he. Oh, it's 
very funny ! " 

So it was, Without a doubt it was an 
extremely humorous situation. Pullen saw 
that. He giggled, and Marcovitch redoubled 
his vigilance. He had seen men who giggled 
when death came close. And they were then 
very dangerous, full of swiftness and horrible 

"I wish we were there," said Marcovitch 
to himself. His hand ached with holding the 
revolver. He had an itch in his crooked 
finger to finish things there and then. 
(i Ah ! " said Pullen, suddenly, 
11 What ? " said Marcovitch, starting. 
Pullen could not answer. He wondered 
where he was. He did not know w T hy he 
said l Ah ! ' Perhaps if life was not like what 



he had thought it, he began to find out what 
it was, or might be, like. His mind resembled 
a fermenting vat in which great wreaths of 
bladdery foam rise and die, and rise again 
with the hiss of cracking bubbles. Yet now 
the ferment ceased suddenly. Though he 
knew not what to do he saw things clearly. 
He began to estimate Marcovitch with a 
keener eye. He had written a hundred tales 
of heroism : he was the apostle of men in 
peril ; he displayed infinite ingenuity in 
imagined escapes; his concocted situations 
often had some subtle solution ; he resorted 
to violence, even in fiction, with reluctance. 
Was there a way out here ? He wished he 
had lived more, seen more. Life had been 
purely mental with him ; his tales were like 
chess problems — varied in solution, admir- 
ably built, not incapably managed, but 
without live blood in them. 

He had made spider-webs, geometrical, 
fine as silken hairs, and set his flies therein, 
while Danger was the spider. He drew the 
web of all his work out of his mind ; he 
quarried in his own garden ; he had inven- 
tion, enormous ingenuity ; his police were as 
wonderful as any mechanical toy ; he pulled 
the string and they worked. Now he saw 
in the pallid face opposite him something 
like a face he had seen in his mind when he 
wrought at a doer of evil who truly had no 
life or passion. But here — here was reality. 
For Marcovitch smiled. Pullen noted the 
quality of his smile — its bitterness, its intent, 
its shallowness. The writer's mind seized 
upon the picture, and some day meant to 
draw it But the outer Pullen was afraid of 
death. As a boy he had never fought. And 
yet when he knew he was afraid, and 
saw Marcovitch clearly, his mind cleared 

11 My good man, this is very absurd," said 
Pullen, with a calm that surprised him. 

" Very," said Marcovitch. 

"If you shoot me you will be hanged," 
said Pullen. 

" Your life would be cheap at the price," 
said Marcovitch. 

" Is LermontofT, then, so dangerous ? " 

" Lermontoff is a devil," said Marcovitch. 

" Well, I'm not Lermontoff," said Pullen. 
" Are you taking me to men who know 
him ? " 

" We all know him," said Marcovitch. 

" You do not ! You never met him ? " 

"That's true. Not till now," said Marco- 
vitch, wetting his lips with his tongue. 

" But the others know him ? " 

"We only knew yesterday that you were 

the man we wanted," said Marcovitch. " Why 
should I not tell you so ? " 

" Good God ! " said Pullen. His mind 
worked swiftly ; he saw they would not know 
him, but would be wrongly sure he was the 
man they needed. 

"They'll kill me," he said to himself. 
There's something preposterous in the mere 
notion of death to the strong ; it seems an 
evil miracle, a wicked joke, a ghastly notion 
tinged with hideous comedy. What has 
death to do with those whose hearts beat, 
who have work to do, whose brains invent 
and live passionately ? To such death's 
an intrusive macaronic devil. It's without 
reason, without rhyme ; it's a bachelor word 
without a mate to give it sound or echo or 
meaning. And Pullen laughed. He never 
wrote tragedies — he had no tragic sense. 
Yet now tragedy touched him. 

" It's impossible," gasped Pullen. 

He spoke aloud and Marcovitch grinned. 
And then the cab stopped. He remembered 
that in a hundred tales of his the same thing 
had happened. " The cab stopped ! " Why, 
he had written that, and never till now did he 
know what the words meant. This was real ; 
he had lived in dreams. But reality had the 
quality of a dream. He saw faces — white, 
eager faces at the cab door. Good heavens ! 
how strange ! He was in a story, one he had 
written years ago. What were the names in 
it ? He heard voices in an unknown tongue. 

" Get out," said Marcovitch. " And if you 
call out we shall stab you to death in the 

He couldn't call out, for his tongue was 
dry. He wondered whether Lermontoff was 
talking at the club. 

He saw the street and people hurrying 
there — the anxious, hurrying folk of London. 
Each one had his trouble ; each his fox that 
gnawed his vitals. But he envied them — 
they had time to live. Oh, life was splendid, 
it shone and sparkled ; it glowed warm upon 
the hearth of the great world. At life each 
little lonely soul warmed itself before it 
departed into the dumb frost of nothingness 
and dark annihilation. 

"Go in," said Marcovitch. 

He climbed a steep and narrow stair, with 
one man in front and three behind him. He 
heard their voices and knew that they 
rejoiced. He heard the sound " Lermontoff," 
and again " Lermontoff." The hunters had 
the prey, the prey in a fur coat, in their toils. 
But now he had no fear, or not what 
his writing mnid knew as such. He was 
pam^d- |T ^^^^im hope burned, 



a faint lamp that illumined a tomb, a cavern, 
a vast, gigantic lightless cave of whirling 
winds. He felt within him courage, or else 
he named despair so. But his mind cried 
out that he was learning more than he had 
ever known. • He could not die, would not, 
must not. He laughed. 

"That's good, Lermontoff," said Marco- 
vitch. " I'm glad you're brave, after all." 

There was encouragement in Marcovitch. 
Pullen loathed him, but, as a writer might, 
approved him. A man's brain is a wondrous 
instrument ; he works a part of it, but the 
whole works him. 

" He's a character — a character in a story," 
said Pullen's brain, as he entered a room. 
The door was shut behind him ; there 
were five men in with him, for one was in 
the room when he entered, a man with a 
Tartar face and bushy hair. He reminded 
Pullen of Stepniak, the bushy-haired Russian 
revolutionist who now was dead. In the 
light of the flaring gas-jet without a globe he 
saw them all, but he looked chiefly at the 
leader and at Marcovitch, whom he saw 
plainly for the first time. The whole affair 
at that moment assumed the monstrous 
absurdity of a dream, one of those visions in 
which the dreamer's brain builds edifices of 
thought that are as preposterous as a mad 
architect's drawings. 

He said: — 

"This is absurd!" 

They stared at him, but it was by no 
means absurd. 

"Speak Russian, Lermontoff," said the 
man like Stepniak. 

" I cannot. I'm not Lermontoff." 

Marcovitch burst out in Russian, and 
Pullen noted with a curious satisfaction, 
which is only the artist's as he learns, the 
alternate sharp sibilance and soft labialism of 
Russian, which he had never known before. 
English was sibilant, French predominantly 
nasal, and German painfully guttural. This 
was knowledge, a new thing to him. A man 
hearing this may say, " I'll note that ; it fits 
into or will fit into something." But Pullen 
knew his brain might register what it would 
now. He scented the very odour of death 
about him. 

" Not Lermontoff? " said the big man. 

" That's what he says," cried Marcovitch. 

" Where's that portrait ? " asked the leader. 

A little man with a broken nose produced 
it They stared at it, handing it around. 
They had, perhaps, looked at it a thousand 
times. Pullen saw it was worn and turned 
up at the corners. 

"Show it me," he said Marcovitch 
showed it to him. 

" It's a little like me," said Pullen ; " but 
that's what they said at my club. It's 

"Said at your club?" 

" They said Lermontoff was like me. I'm 
James Pullen, a writer, an English writer. 
Come, now, you don't think I'm a 
Russian ? " 

He spoke well, clearly, coldly, reasonably. 

" Clever devil," said Marcovitch, laughing. 
That laugh was like a slap in the face, a 
calculated blow, and Pullen flushed. In 
the quietest heart murder lies asleep; the 
passions of the beast crouch there in the 
ancient thickets of man's primeval memory. 
Pullen was a quiet man. He could not 
recollect having struck anyone even when 
he was a boy. But now he turned on 
Marcovitch with eyes that made the Russian 
blench visibly for a moment. 

" Ah ! " said Marcovitch, with his head 
aside. He wondered why the man with 
those eyes had not grappled with him in the 
cab. But they reassured him all the same. 
This must be Lermontoff. That Pullen had 
been so easy to handle had truly made him 
doubt. They had heard much of Lermon- 
toff under many names. 

" He's Lermontoff," said Marcovitch. 

"He says he knows him. Would Ler- 
montoff say so ? " asked the leader. 

" He's in my club. A doctor brought him 
as a guest," said Pullen. " Why, all the men 
said he was like me. He told us stories, 
stories about crime." 

" He has many to tell," said Marcovitch. 
"Possibly one about my brother, who shot 
himself yesterday." 

" Shot himself ? " asked Pullen. 

" Or he would have gone back to Russia," 
said Marcovitch. "We're more than criminals, 

Then there was something political in it 
after all. Pullen knew nothing of Anarchists 
or Nihilists beyond the newspaper talk of 
them. If they were forgers, perhaps they 
forged to get money for other purposes. He 
had heard they did so. 

" It's absurd to call me Lermontoff," urged 
Pullen, now quite coolly, as it seemed. "I'm 
not the man. It's a chance likeness. What 
I say is true. Why should I say I've met 
the man if I wasn't telling the truth ? Keep 
me here and find out if what I say is true. 
I'll give you my card. Take it to the club 
in Dover Street. Ask for Dr. Palethorpe. 




there. Be quick and just see. Isn't that 
reasonable ? " 

" It's reasonable enough," said the bushy- 
haired man. 

" It's waste of time," said Marcovitch. 

" I'm not sure," said the leader, slowly. 

" I am," said Marcovitch. The others said 

"Give me your card," said the leader. 
And Pullen felt in the pocket of his overcoat 
for the pocket-book in which he carried 
visiting-cards. He was a little vain of his 
figure and his clothes, and hated to carry it 
where it showed. But he found no pocket- 

"Why, my pocket-book " he began. 

And Marcovitch slapped his coat on the 
breast, where Pullen thought the Pall Mall 
Gazette was. Then Marcovitch pulled the 
paper out, and with it a packet of Russian 

" The man who is not Lermontoff carries 
the Novoe Vremya" giggled Marcovitch, " and 
smokes Russian cigarettes ! " 

Pullen, of course, had heard of that St. 
Petersburg paper. His blood ran cold as 
ice. He pulled out a pair of gloves. They 
were not his own ! 

"This isn't my coat," said Pullen, in a 
lamentable voice. "I must have put on 
Lermon toff's. It's just like mine — just like 
mine ! " 

And Marcovitch doubled up with laughter 
— the heartiest, evillest laughter — so that 
Pullen could have had him tortured for it. 

"Oh, he's not Lermontoff," said Marco- 
vitch, gasping — "not our friend Lermontoff; 
not the spy and policeman lermontoff! " 

" I tell you it's not my coat ! " said Pullen. 
"Oh, my God!" 

And still Marcovitch giggled, till Pullen 
longed to have him by the throat. He felt 
his fingers clench as if they held his wind- 
pipe, throttling him. He saw that throat, a 
lean throat, above a grimy collar, low cut 
and of a foreign pattern. 

" He's like Lermontoff, and has a coat 
like his, and, not knowing Russian, carries 
the Novoe Vremya" said Marcovitch. " Oh, 
my dears, isn't it funny ? All these things 
prove he's not the man ! Oh, my brother, 
my brother ! " 

But Pullen wished his brother had been 
hanged, and the live Marcovitch with him. 

" But — you're Lermontoff," said the bushy- 
haired man. 

And Pullen could hardly speak. When 
he did he could not recognize his own 

VoL xxxix.^34. 

" I'm not — I'm not," he said thickly, in a 
dry whisper. 

"Liar!" said Marcovitch, laughing no 

There was sweat upon the brow of the 
big man- Pullen wondered why. He looked 
at Pullen with an inexplicable look. For 
Pullen was utterly English, and this man was 
of another race. Perhaps this was the look 
of a Slav, and the English mind understands 
nothing beyond its own small circle. 

" He seems sorry," thought Pullen. 

"Take him into the next room for a minute," 
said the leader. 

" Go now," said Marcovitch, roughly. 

But the big man spoke in Russian, and 
Marcovitch grew quieter as he followed upon 
Pullen's heels. One of the others, a little 
man who whimpered as if he hated Pullen 
more than Marcovitch, tried to follow, but 
the big man drew him back. Marcovitch 
locked the door, and then stood by the 
window, still with the revolver in his hand. 

"What are they going to do?" asked 

" They are thinking about it," said Marco- 
vitch, tauntingly — "thinking how to finish 
you, Lermontoff." 

It is folly to taunt a man in a corner. 
Pullen knew that. It seemed to him that he 
had written as much in something of his. 
But he did not reply to Marcovitch. He 
looked at the room, which was small, irregular 
in shape, and very unclean. There was a 
dirty bed in the corner, and by it a broken 
chair. The window was obscure with the dirt 
of years ; a broken pane gave the only venti- 
lation that the room possessed, since there 
was no fireplace. Pullen walked towards the 
window as Marcovitch watched him. He 
looked through it into the night, which was 
now thick with rain. He saw some vague 
lights. Below the window was a roof, which 
sloped steeply for some fifteen feet. Then 
there was a drop, probably of about four feet, 
and another slope of roof which ended either 
over a yard or a narrow lane. The world out- 
side, as Pullen saw it, was obscure and filthy ; 
poverty looked out of every casement, as 
anxiety looked out of the eyes of all who lived 

" I — I wonder ? " said Pullen to himself. 

" You can't escape that way, Lermontoff," 
said Marcovitch, with a grin. " The window 
does not open." 

The dead and evil air of the room pro- 
claimed the possible truth of this. 

" It's — it's ridiculous/' said Pullen. 

"Wh© r ^fK' a F$fd Marcovitch. 




" I'm Pullen— Pullen— James Pullen," said 
Pullen, with set insistence. 

It was as if he said so to convince himself. 
He seemed to be someone else, and he 
repeated his name as if he hung to it for 
sanity's sake. A name's a great thing. 
Personality hangs to it ; the years are sus- 
pended to it ; it's a cord on which the sacred 
rosary of a man's remembrances is threaded. 

" You're Lermontoff ! " jeered Marcovitch. 
He was a cruel man. 

"Why should Lermontoff hunt you?" 
asked Pullen, suddenly. 

" You know," said Marcovitch ; " we're 
not only forgers. You know that." 

Pullen guessed as much. A man like 
Lermontoff was more than a mere police- 

"What would Lermontoff have done by 
now ? " Pullen asked himself. He answered, 
" He'd have killed this man — killed him — 
killed him!" 

He heard the voices in the next room. 
No doubt they spoke of death. They 
might come in at any moment. The time 
ran short for him — very short. But he 
could not move, though he prayed for 
power to do something. 

"If I die, I can but die," said Pullen. 
Nevertheless he did not want to die at once. 
He asked Lermontoff for help. He felt the 
fur of Lermontoff's overcoat as if the pelt 
retained something of the Russian's courage 
and determination. 

"Oh !" said Pullen, suddenly. His voice 
sounded like a pistol-shot, and Marcovitch 
started as he stood behind him on his left, 
while Pullen stared out of the window at a cat 
that crawled upon the sloping roof. The cat 
leapt lightly on the building below. 

"This," said Pullen, with a cry which 
sounded in his own ears like the snarl of a 
dangerous beast 

He drove his left elbow back and with it 
caught Marcovitch unawares under the chin. 
He struck him with the point of his elbow in 
the larynx and heard the man gasp frightfully. 
Then he turned swiftly and caught Marco- 
vitch by the wrist, the wrist of the hand 
that held the pistol. Pullen was strong, 
amazingly strong ; and Marcovitch could not 
get his breath. There's no blow that leaves 
a man his senses so deadly as one upon the 
throat if it gets home. The revolver fell 
upon the floor, and the men in the next 
room ceased speaking. But Pullen, still 
wondering what Lermontoff would have 
done, did something for himself. He caught 
Marcovitch by the hair above the left ear 

Digitized by GoOQle 

and locked his grip into it. He saw the hair 
was grey, and the man's face was grey too. 
With his other hand Pullen took him by the 
throat He felt* his fingers sink into the 
flesh. He saw terror in the Russian's eyes, 
for there is no terror like that which greets 
disaster when triumph seems assured beyond 
all jeopardy. 

" I'm James Pullen," said Pullen, bragging. 
Oh, but he was very proud of himself. He 
was swift and cunning and bold. He 
approved of himself notably. That's the 
nature of the artist ; in that lies his double 
consciousness. His eye for effect saw that 
he was effective, while his nature, outwardly 
so bland and suave, was like that of a savage 
beast — a little beast made dangerous by the 
fear of death. He giggled as he held the 
man's throat. He felt now as if he had 
played the coward of set purpose, so that 
Marcovitch should get secure and dominant ; 
for the secure lack caution, and often at the 
very moment of expected triumph it is 
failure strikes the hour. 

He twisted Marcovitch round and ran him 
backwards violently — ran him, with his heels 
pattering on the bare, greasy boards, towards 
the window. He shook him like a rat, and 
had a bitter, pleasing satisfaction in the 
texture of his hair as he wrenched at it In 
doing that his fingers found an ancient 
atavistic joy as they did in the lean flesh of 
his enemy's throat And then he heard the* 
others at the door, shaking it violently. 

This new Pullen, or this old Pullen, who 
had never written books, rammed the Russian 
at the window, and the glass and frame gave 
way as he loosed his hair and throat. In his 
left hand was a clump of greyish hair, and he 
laughed as Marcovitch pitched upon the roof 
outside among the broken glass and broke 
the slates as he fell. The body (was it only 
a body?) slid and rolled. No, Marcovitch 
was still alive, for his hands gripped where 
there was never a hand - hold and found 
nothing. He slid from one roof to the other, 
the lower roof on which the cat had jumped. 
Pullen lost sight of him for an instant and then 
saw him reappear on the lower roof, even as 
the door of the room was broken. He turned 
and saw a panel burst in it, saw the light 
through it, and a man's white and furious 
face. And then Pullen himself leapt for the 
window. As he went through the broken 
glass he heard a cry behind him and then a 
pistol-shot. Yet there was no one at the 
window. He saw, as he slid, that there was 
no one. Perhaps those men fought among 
themselves. And as he slid down the roof it 
Original from 




seemed a long, long time— a preposterous 
and absurdly drawn-out instant of time— an 
endless, endless time. There was blood 
upon his hands as he slid upon the greasy, 
wet slates. He had cut himself with the 
glass, though he felt no pain. As he slid 
down he was a monstrous, a ridiculous figure. 
His fur overcoat spread out behind him on 
the roof, He cried out as he went. And 
again he laughed— absolutely laughed — or he 
thought that he did. It really was a scream, 
half pain, half triumph. He saw the night, the 
dim lamps, a lighted window before him, and 
then he dropped upon the lower roof and 
jarred his very teeth. And again he slid and 
rolled He saw a face at the window, up 
above him — a staring white face, a blur of a 
face. Whose was it ? He wondered that 
he found so much time to think in the few 
seconds that it took him to reach the edge 
of the lower root So it seems slow, very 
slow, till a man reaches the ground when a 
horse throws him. There's a long time 
betwixt the death-cap and the drop, a very 
long time. Under an anesthetic an instant's 
pain may draw itself out into a fine, thin, 
eternal agony, 

u 0h! M said Pullen. He saw the dim 

depths beneath him. It was, perhaps, twelve 
or fourteen feet to the ground. Like Marco- 
vitch f he had clutched foolishly and frantically 
at the slates as he slid and rolled, and his 
finger- tips bled. He clutched again at some- 
thing — a little piece of jagged iron projecting 
from the roof just at the edge. It ripped his 
hand open, but caught his coat even as he 
fell. He saw beneath him a dim mass, a body 
— the body of Marcovitch, He wanted to 
fall on Marcovitch, wanted to fall brutally on 
his body, for his savage native soul— the soul 
of ancient man — was like a drawn sheath-knife. 
But then, in that blurred, intense moment he 
saw a man running towards him in the dark 
of the narrow lane. He screamed ; they had 
got him after all ! Then his coat, held by 
the jagged iron, brought him up. He hung 
there an instant, ludicrous, helpless, howling 
with rage. Then the coat ripped loudly 
where fur and lining parted and let him 
down, twirling wildly, like a roasting apple on 
a string. Then the iron up above gave way, 
or the coat ripped where it was caught, and 
he fell feet-foremost upon Marcovitch- As 
he did he howled again, for someone caught 
hold of him from behind Oh, how horrible 
it was to be so near escape and yet to die 






after all ! He struggled wonderfully, with a 
strength he never knew he had, with a vigour 
surprising in a sedentary man. 

"Now then, shut it!" said the voice of 
the man who held him. 

It was a typical English voice — a London 
voice, with the marred, amazing vowels of 
the Cockney. 

"Oh! "said Pullen. "What?" 

But still he fought and kicked. Then 
something struck him hard. He saw what 
folks call " stars " ; there was a blur of light 
in his brain — a shock to the optic centre — 
and he fell limply. 

" Bloomin' Rooshian ! " said the police- 
man, gasping. He stooped, with the trun- 
cheon still in his hand. He had half a 
mind to kick Pullen for kicking him. His 
shins ached with a backward kick that had 
caught him in a tender spot. But he rolled 
his capture over — rolled him off Marcovitch. 

"Another of 'em," said the policeman. 
He rose and blew his whistle. Two more of 
his fellows came running, one a sergeant. 

" Got two of the blighters," said the first 
man, puffing, "and one I 'ad to down. 'Ope 
I ain't killed 'im." 

The sergeant flashed a bull's-eye on 
Marcovitch and then on Pullen. He started 
when he saw him and his fur overcoat 

" Why, you ass, this is Mr. lermontoff," 
he said. 

"What! the bloke Lermontoff?" gasped 
the constable who had made the capture. 
" No, to be sure " 

"Tis him! How's that?" asked the 

" He fought like billy-o," said the constable. 
" 'Ow should I know ? The bloke came off 
the roof and fought like a wild cat." 

Pullen groaned, and then three other men 
came up the lane at a run, two of them in 
plain clothes. Behind them came a fourth, 
who smoked a cigar calmly. 

"This is Mr. Lermontoff," began the 
sergeant " This is a pretty kettle o' fish, to 
be sure." 

But the man who walked and smoked was 

" We've got the lot, then, sergeant ? " said 

" Good Lord ! " said the sergeant " Is 
that you, sir ? " 

44 Who should it be ? " asked Lermontoff. 

" Why, we thought you was him," said the 
sergeant, pointing at Pullen. And lermontoff 
bent down, staring. 

44 This is very odd, very remarkable," said 
Lermontoff. " Why, I know him ! " 

" He's the dead spit o' you, sir," said one 
of the constables. 

" So they say," replied Lermontoff. " How 
did he come here ? " 

"What is he?" 

" He's a writer," said Lermontoff. 

" And one of the gang, sir ? " 

"Nonsense," said the Russian. "I hope 
you haven't killed him. This is a puzzle." 

Pullen groaned again and opened his eyes. 

" He'll be all right in a jiffy," said the 
sergeant. The constable who had knocked 
Pullen down knelt by him and lifted him into 
a sitting position. 

" Where ami?" asked Pullen. 

"Here," said the constable, as if that 
helped Pullen to understand. The only 
thing that Pullen understood was that he 
was something with a shocking headache. 
But Lermontoff bent down to him. 

" I say, I'm Lermontoff," said the Russian ; 
" how did you get here ? " 

"You're — you're Lermontoff, are you?" 
said Pullen. 

" To be sure, to be sure. How did you 
get here ? " 

Pullen shook his head. 

" I don't know. Yes ; I do ! " 

Things came back to him. His scattered 
mind rearranged itself. He was conscious of 
a feeling of anger. 

44 Hang you ! " said Pullen, feebly. 

" Who ? " asked Lermontoff, wonderingly. 

" You, and your overcoat," said Pullen. 

44 He's a bit dotty from the crack I give 
'im," said the policeman who had his arm 
about Pullen. But Pullen recovered fast. 
He remembered Marcovitch. 

"Where's Marcovitch?" he asked. 

They looked at Marcovitch, for they had 
almost forgotten him. 

" Neck's broke," said the sergeant, shortly. 

" I'm glad of that," said Pullen. " I killed 
him. But I want to go home." 

" Fetch a cab, Thomas," said the sergeant 

" I'll take him," said Lermontoff. "This 
is a puzzle, but I'll find out what it means, 

"I'm Mr. James Pullen," said Pullen. 
" I kept on telling them so, but they wouldn't 
believe it They — they put me into a cab. 
They said I was Lermontoff. Hang ler- 
montoff ! I've had such a time ! " 

He almost wept 

44 You are all right now," said Lermontoff. 

" Am I ? Are you sure ? " asked Pullen. 

i% Quite sure," said Lermontoff, as a taxi- 
cab came up the lane. 

44 1 want to go to bed," said Pullen, feebly. 



Reproduced from PAfiUgra/As, iy Emery Walker^ cf the Origin*/ Painting*. 


■ ■ JJ * 

HERE must always have been 
smart sets, always the chosen 
few in contradistinction to the 
tolerated many ; and the 
nucleus of the smart set was 
perhaps always the greatest 
personage in the land, the Grand Panjandrum, 
before whose Imperial hat, with the little 
button on top, high-bred knees bent in Court 
curtsies and proud lips meekiy murmured 

Semi ram is, of course, had her smart set, 
and one may be sure that they were the most 

advanced and emancipated spirits in her 
kingdom, who sacrificed superfluous babies 
to Ashtoreth t and sjxent the summer with the 
Assyrian queen in the pleasure-house she 
had built for herself at her city of Wan, 
wasting the languorous afternoons in delicious 
gardens watered with a thousand rills, beside 
an inland sea, while the Mesopotamian 
commonalty were broiling. Who can doubt 
that Nineveh, just as London has, had its 
exclusive* the people who knew Semi ram is, 
and who talked the Court jargon ? 

h% fflffli&.ff records wllich 



have given us the business "letters of the 
great king have not yet yielded up the 
journal of an Assyrian Pepys or St. Simon ; 
but whereas human nature has varied very 
little since the Stone Age, one may reason- 
ably conclude that those two distinguishing 
marks of smartness, which have prevailed 
since the days of Francis I. and our Bluff 
King Hal, were not missing in the summer 
idlesse at Wan. Those marks are eccentricity, 
and open secrets ; not to know which argues 
yourself unknown. To be smart without 
eccentricity is hardly possible. Of Antony 
Hamilton — most accomplished x>{ courtiers, 
Scot by birth, Parisian by education — it was 
noted that he had un bon coin'de singularity 

Smartness is a subtle quality, not to be 
attained by mere beauty, or by exquisite dress 
and faultless surroundings. Chesterfield was 
an ugly little man ; but who could deny him 
smartness of the first water? To be smart 
it is essential to be amusing, and to amuse is 
difficult without a flavour of eccentricity — the 
something original, daring, hors Hgne^ which 
duller people talk about and princes admire. 

All the really smart people have been 
originals, and have liked to make the com- 
mon herd wonder. In dress, in manner, 
in language, in conduct, they are always 
astonishing. To be leaders they have to 
devise new things. They must give the note, 
and not take it ; and as their whims and 
manners and turns of speech are imitated 
by the idle rich almost as slavishly as their 
carriages, houses, and clothes, they must be 
Protean in their transformations, and must 
leave the herd baffled and wondering. 

Eclat y reclame^ never to be out of the 
public mind, are imperative for those leaders 
of ton who, within the last thirty years, have 
labelled themselves " smart," an adjective 
that forty years ago was associated only with 
the Sunday clothes of housemaids, and was 
seldom spoken by polite lips. 

Of course, there are other signs of smart- 
ness besides those two leading characteristics. 
The smart set have almost as many marks as 
the Buddha — hair arranged in a particular 
way at a particular time, altered with a 
magical simultaneousness the instant West 
Kensington has the hang of it ; gowns of 
a special cut — it is the "cut "smart people 
pay for, not the fabric ; fan or no fan ; 
eye-glass or no eye-glass ; a particular 
walk, a particular drawl, a particular per- 
version of the English language ; a new 
adjective, a new dog, a new religion, new 
drugs, new diets, new diseases, new doctors, 
new parsons. It is not one shibboleth, but a 


hundred shibboleths that the outsider has 
to master if he wants to be "of them" as 
well as with them. And he can never be 
quite, quite like them. The smart person, 
like Buddha, is born, not made. 

Another of the distinguishing marks is 
desinvolture> go-as-you-please, an easy audacity 
that defies public opinion, does things and 
says things and looks things, such as other 
people dare not look, say, or do. To the 
smart woman it is essential that her sayings 
should be bandied about. She may be really 
witty, or she may be only outrageous ; but she 
must not be dull. She must make august 
shoulders shake with suppressed laughter — 
she must sacrifice friends, kindred, and creed 
for a joke. She must have quaint nicknames 
for her nearest and dearest, and must never 
shrink from making fun of her mother. If 
her sister is in the Divorce Court and her 
brother at Holloway, she will tell people that 
after all these are not the worst — we should 
all be before Sir Gorell Barnes, or picking 
oakum, if we had our deserts. The foolish 
persons who thought she would fly to Naples 
or Budapest, and never come back, are 
speedily convinced of their folly. She is at 
the opera, radiant, on the next tiara night. 
She was never in greater beauty, and her box 
is crowded with adorers. " It will be my 
turn next," she says, and there are explosions 
of laughter. Everybody is glad to know she 
is not going to make a fuss, and that they 
are not called upon for effort in the way of 

Looking backward through the long vista 
of social history, the smart sets shine out like 
stars from the mass of humdrum humanity. 
Cinq Mars, Buckingham, Grammont, Dorset, 
Lauzun, the Due de Richelieu— all along the 
line these are the figures that catch the eye 
and fill the imagination — these are the shapes 
that glitter ; not the great, solid people who 
were only soldiers or statesmen, reformers, 
discoverers, inventors, philosophers. Their 
names live in the encyclopaedia, and spread 
wide upon the page of history ; but they never 
come out of the books. They are not living, 
breathing, animated figures, flashing about 
the vivid picture of a familiar past. The people 
of the past that live are the smart people, the 
pretty women whose company was the delight 
of kings, the fops and fribbles, the rouks and 
reprobates. It is a defect in the human 
intellect, perhaps, that trifles light as air make 
the deepest impression upon the sensorium, 
that for one mind that holds a distinct image 
of Columbus or Bacon, a hundred minds 
swarm with sppjljifrlp^lp-s as Nell Gwynne and 




Ninon de I^enclos, the Regent Orleans, 
George IV., Sheridan, and Beau Brummel. 
In all ihe hurly-burly of the French Re%^olu- 
tion Marie Antoinette is the dominating 
figure— -not because she was dauntless in 
peril and sublime in martyrdom, but because 
she had been the ruling spirit of a gay and 

uninitiated for li smart." Kings and princes 
nowadays are kinder to the new money 
than they were in the time when there 
were gilded balustrades round Royal beds, 
and the ckrvaux - de -/rise of ceremony 
divided Royal personages from all but the 
most nobly born of their subjects. 




and mys- 
inan affair 
with a Cardinal and a diamond necklace. 

Every schoolboy knows the story of the 
Field of the Cloth of Gold, when all that 
there was of grandeur in France was to be 
found in the entourage of the King. Outside 
that Royal zone splendour might be found, 
but fashion could not live. Merchants and 
bankers, the magnates of finance, the princes 
of commerce, might build for themselves 
palaces, might eat off gold plate, and set 
fountains flowing with rich wines or delicate 
|x rfinnes ; but not in that stately sixteenth 
century could they achieve smartness in the 
modern sense of that comprehensive word. 
It has only been in our levelling age that 
wealth has been able to buy fashion — or, 
rather, by a painstaking imitation of the 
fashionable, to achieve a certain electro- 
plated modishness which passes with ihe 

Digitized by ClOOgIc 

But in the historical age, as now, there 
was one influence before which the barriers 
of etiquette fell as at the waving of an 
enchanters wand. Beauty led the modish 
choir then as now. Beauty was always at 
the top of the mode. Think of that famous 
Field of the Cloth of Gold in 1520, when 
Henry of England was young and hand- 
some—only twenty eight, but a shade stouter 
than youth ought to be, with a certain 
fleshiness of the face that made his eyes 
look small— and when England and France 
vied with each other in expenditure, to make 
the meeting of their kings a pageant for all 
the world to remember —when the French 
tw&Iesse were pawning their plate and mort- 
gaging their chateaux to pay for velvet and 
satin and cloth of gold, and for those heavy 
gold chains such as the English delighted in. 
Who was the star of that magnificent assem- 
blage, the cynosure of every eye, as she sat 
throned on the highest point in the picture? 
Naturally the lady whom King Francis chose 
to honour, had indeed honoured with his 
Roval favour for- the last two years* whereby it 




was thought by some far-seeing sycophants 
that those Royal eyes might soon be roving, 
and Mme. du Chateaubriand's power begin to 
wane. Two years of devotion is much for a 
Francis L, who has never affected the stern 
morality of his kingly brother across the 
Channel — that pious Sovereign, who in ten 
years of married life has never been charged 
with infidelity to a virtuous and pious, but 
somewhat uninteresting, wife — a wife handed 
on to him, as it were, from the death-bed of 
his brother, and about whose legal status he 
has never been able to feel quite comfortable. 

Yet no unholy envy of his French brother 
disturbs him as he admires the beautiful 
duchess ringed round with her attendant 
nymphs. Such thoughts are not for Henry 
Tudor, the splendid sportsman, the prince 
who almost lives on horseback ; and who 
presently, in the lists, fights his mock battle 
with such fiery ardour that he most unin- 
tentionally slays his antagonist^ and with 
still less intention rides his horse to death ; 
perhaps a favourite charger, sacrificed for the 
triumph of a day. No doubt a Roman 
Emperor would have sacrificed a hundred 
slaves with less concern. 

It was a day or two later that the debon- 
naire king paid his visit of ceremony to the 
French Queen-Consort, Claude of France, 
stepdaughter of Henry's sister Mary ; and 
here in this good lady's Court he saw a 
slender, swan-necked girl of fourteen, very 
delicate and very pretty, daughter of an 
English knight— one Sir Thomas Boleyn — 
who had brought her to the French Court at 
six years old, where she had lived ever since, 
and was now an accomplished young maid of 
honour and a favourite of the gentle Queen. 

Whether in that first glimpse of the fair 
girl, for whom his fatal love was to mean 
untimely and cruel death, there was any 
forecast of the passion for which Henry was to 
sacrifice so much a few years later, history 
has left no record. All we know is that 
the King of England saw that fascinating 
creature who was to lead and glorify the 
smartest set at the Tudor Court, during her 
brief summer of happiness. 

Elizabeth was splendid after her own self- 
centred fashion, but she lacked the charm 
of her incomparable mother, and had none 
of the adaptability of a leader of ton ; a 
want which that Royal egotist must have felt 
keenly before she tormented her Ambas- 
sadors with her searching questions about 
the person and manners of her cousin, 
the beautiful young Queen whose magnetic 
Diqitizeo by LiOOQ Im- 

personality could subjugate even her hard- 
skinned burgesses of Edinburgh. No; it 
was not in " Our Eliza," magnificent as her 
Court might be, to be the central figure and 
influencing mind of a smart set For all her 
passion for fine clothes, her delight in a first 
pair of silk stockings, her gowns to be 
reckoned by hundreds, she was too grave a 
personage to encourage that airy lightness 
and variability which are essential graces of 
the " smart" She was too full of her own 
importance, of the seriousness of a Royal 
life, and had much too keen a sense of 
the value of money, to encourage freakish- 
ness and originality in her maids of honour 
and waiting women. It was remembered how 
she fell upon one of those maids of honour, 
who ventured to array herself in a finer gown 
than her Sovereign's ; how she had the gown 
stripped off the damsel's shivering form and 
tried on herself; and how, on its proving a 
misfit, she flung it off in dudgeon. " Since it 
misbeseems you and does not fit me, nobody 
shall wear it." That was not the kind of 
queen to surround herself with such volage 
grace? as those who throve in Catherine de 
Medici's Italianized Court; and although 
that glorious reign could count great soldiers 
and splendid sea-dogs, a Burleigh, a Bacon, 
and a Shakespeare, no leader of ton, no 
light-hearted and irresistible prince of fashion 
has left his dazzling image upon the page of 
Elizabethan history. Leicester was too con- 
sumed by fierce ambitions ; Essex too fine a 
soldier; Ralegh, with encouragement, might 
have been such a one. The incident of the 
cloak has all the dash of "smart" youth. 
One could imagine the splendid spendthrift 
Duke of Buckingham dropping his sable 
coat upon a patch of wet gravel in his 
princely garden at Stowe, to save his young 
Queen's silken slipper from the damp ; but 
Ralegh's youthful exploit was an isolated 
instance, and in the doings of a "smart 
set" there should be a hundred examples of 
elegant extravagance. 

No; it is not to the Tudor, but to the 
Stuart Queen, that we must look for the 
subtle, ineffable charm that can communicate 
itself to all who come within its influence, and 
which could make the gloomy palace of Holy- 
rood a place of light and music and laughter, 
of gay dances and daring gallantry, of sparkle 
and splendour, and the sportive lightness that 
brought down the thunder of John Knox. 

Wherever Mary Stuart held her Court, so 
long as she had even the semblance of a 
Court, there must have been all the elements 
of that indescribable quality which we are 




constrained to call "fashion" — the inimit- 
able something in style, manner, and clothes- 
which everybody wants to imitate. 

With all the spontaneous charms of a 

but briefest childhood for the little Queen 
who came into her fatal inheritance in her 
cradle, and was snatched from her country 
and kingdom at three years old, and carried 


Scotswoman of high rank, Mary had the 
acquired graces of the French Court, at 
which she had shone by her elegance and 
accomplishments while scarcely escaped from 
childhood. It may be said that there was 

over sea in the teeth of menacing warships, 
with four little girls of noble birth, who were 
afterwards to he famous in the romance of 
h istorv as , Marv Stuarts lour p Marys! 

Ta^^ ! ^flr4t^y^ [, «vfe[ur by King 



Henry II. of France and his accomplished 
Florentine wife, the little girl grew up in an 
atmosphere of culture and refinement. Here, 
in this fortress-palace at St Germain, she 
acquired not only all the accomplishments that 
make the charm of princes, but also the deeper 
and subtler arts that made her so formidable 
in argument with dour John Knox, and 
superior in craft to the great English Queen. 

Think of her in her beauty, in the dawn 
of womanhood, Queen-Consort, the central 
figure in that dazzling Court of the Valois, 
with France at her feet ; and from that hour, 
through vicissitudes rare in the lives of 
women, always lovely, always gifted with 
charms that none, except that stern monitor 
in the Puritan pulpit, could resist ; and who 
can doubt that, this woman was born to be a 
leader, and that around that dazzling figure 
all that was loveliest and lightest, fairest in 
woman and wittiest in man, must have 
gathered? To the last chapter of that 
tragic story, to the days of flight and 
disaster, the lost battle and the grim 
castle-prison, Mary must have been a great 
lady, with all the attributes that the modern 
world calls " smart." See how history repeats 
itself, and how, as Father Bernard Vaughan 
preached to his fashionable flock in the 
West-end of London, the rugged Puritan 
talked to the cluster of light minded maids 
of honour in Queen Mary's ante-room. " Oh, 
fair ladies, how pleasant were this life of 
yours, if it should ever abide, and then in 
the end that we might pass to heaven with 
all this gay gear ! But fie upon that knave 
Death, that will come whether we will or 
not ! And when he has laid on us his arrest, 
the foul worms will be busy with this flesh, 
were it never so fair and tender; and the 
silly soul, I fear, shall be so feeble that it 
can neither carry with it gold, garnishing, 
targetting, pearl, nor precious stones ! " 

Desinvolture was the essential quality for 
the smart man or woman in the days of Louis, 
le Roi Soleil, and his cousin, Charles Stuart : 
exquisite manners, a gaiete de caur which 
can only exist where there is profound indif- 
ference for the welfare of a people and one's 
personal salvation; a gaiet'e de cceur which 
showed itself at the light-hearted supper- 
party, where the King of England amused 
himself hunting a moth, while the Dutch 
warships were in the Thames. Not in 
France only, but in joyous England, newly 
released from the iron rule of the Puritan 
Protector and his psalm-singing army, in 
the matted gallery and the cramped 
apartments of Whitehall, was the pride of 

life and the joy of living to be seen ; and 
there was as much of wanton pleasure and 
reckless extravagance in that congeries of 
slovenly buildings by the Thames as in the 
brand - new magnificence of Versailles — a 
palace capable of housing two thousand 
inmates, a palace of gold and glitter and 
exquisite furniture, set in a garden of 
fountains, and gleaming statues, and terraces 
where slow and solemn peacocks mocked the 
stately walk of Ambassadors and Court ladies. 

London also had its smart world, beauties 
as unscrupulous, lovers as enterprising, wits 
as audacious, and was tripping as gaily in the 
maze of folly, with just as much of that joie 
de vivre and heedlessness of the future which 
are characteristic of the smart set in every 
age and every country. 

Buckingham, Rochester, Sedley, Dorset, 
Grammont, all leaders, all brimming over 
with wit and animal spirits, reckless, extra- 
vagant, fearing neither God nor devil, but 
disposed to do business with the latter if 
they could turn his talents to account It 
was a time of unmeasured expenditure and 
unrelieved frivolity. Nothing was too sacred 
for a jest ; and husbands were stock figures 
for sport, like Pantaloon in the harlequinade. 
All the forces of society combined against 
that ridiculous personage, the husband of a 
handsome wife. If elderly and unattractive, 
he was outside the pale. No vulgar sport, 
no cruel treachery, could be too bad for him. 
His only chance of peace was to forego all 
social advantages, turn his back upon the 
Court, and immure his spouse in some remote 
family mansion among the Welsh moun- 
tains or the Yorkshire wolds. London and 
domestic tranquillity were an impossible con- 
junction. If of a miserly mind, he was 
tortured by seeing his estate melt and vanish 
before his eyes like snow in sunshine ; a 
thousand acres mortgaged to buy laces and 
feathers, worthless trinkets, and masquerade 
costumes from Paris ; his ancestral halls 
encumbered to fee dancing- masters and for- 
tune-tellers, or to pay for a glass coach. 1 1 
he were an honourable gentleman who loved 
his wife he suffered a nobler agony, and had 
no resource but to abduct and make a 
prisoner of her. So there were heavy hearts 
in the midst of that gay Court, and sad 
thoughts that kept time to the tinkling of 
innumerable guitars. Those comedies of 
Moliere's, in which Beauty's lawful mate is 
ever the butt of all the other characters in 
the play, were as true to life about Whitehall 
as to the gay city by (he: Seine. 

Hearl:l(?!>sness was a characteristic of all 



these smart people ; to ridicule age, ugliness, 
decrepitude, and other infirmities ; to invent 
practical jokes that wounded, and to beguile 
the victim with caresses and every semblance 
of friendship, as in Grammont's story of 
Lady Muskerry, small, crooked, and ugly, 
who is tricked by a forged invitation to the 
Royal masquerade, where she is bidden to 
appear as a Babylonian princess, and thereby 
induced to spend a fortune on a mountain of 
preposterous finery, and to wait trembling in 
an ante-room for the partner who is to take 
her to the ball-room, until her mortified 
husband carries her away and locks her in 
her own chamber. What had she done to 
deserve this agony of distress and humilia- 
tion? Well, she was ugly, and ill-shaped, 
and foolish, and vain. She was what the 
French call une disgraciee. 

And this is how great lords and ladies— 
chief among them the virtuous and lovely 
Miss Hamilton — plotted to make her feel the 
sting of Nature's unkindness. 

Guitars were the fashion — so that all 
Whitehall sounded to the tinkling of un- 
skilled performers ; little dogs were the 
fashion — for did not the King love these 
creatures, and harbour whole families of them 
on the Royal bed, so that serious Mr. Evelyn 
complained of that doggy odour, only sup- 
portable by dog-lovers ? The play-house was 
the fashion, though most of us, like Mr. 
Pepys, thought Shakespeare's tragedies 
absurd, or only tolerable when combined 
with a few rollicking scenes out of a piece 
by Etherege or Shadwell for comic relief. 

The Earl of Chesterfield, who took alarm 
at the too patent attentions of the Duke of 
York, and who dared to carry his wife to 
the country, was talked of as a monster of 
cruelty. " Could it be tolerated," exclaimed 
the Chevalier de Grammont, "that such a 
ruffian as Chesterfield should exercise such 
tyranny over the loveliest woman in England, 
and for a mere indiscretion ? " 

Happily his lordship's course was altogether 
successful, and he won the love of his wife 
by the conduct that saved her honour. 

His Royal Highness of York seems to 
have been fatal to the objects of his volatile 
affections, for having consoled himself for the 
loss of the beautiful Lady Chesterfield by an 
amour with the attractive Lady Denham, the 
lady's elderly husband, who had no country 
seat in which to imprison her, was supposed 
to have sent her on a longer journey, and 
that her untimely death was the result of 
poison from his hand. The London mob in 
his neighbourhood were of this mind ; and the 

widower had so lively a fear of their violence 
that he kept hi mself closely shut in his own house 
until he had appeased the excited populace by 
giving Lady Denham a magnificent funeral, 
at which four times the usual quantity of 
mulled wine was served out to the crowd. 

It will be seen by this that the doings of 
the smart set in the seventeenth century 
were as much watched and commented 
upon by the vulgar as they are in our own 
democratic age. 

Samuel Pepys, the trivial, and John Evelyn, 
the grave, have brought that brilliant throng 
of wild wits and facile beauties, who re- 
volved about the King and Queen in those 
joyous days of restored Royalty, almost as 
near us as the doings of the twentieth century. 

Whose fancy cannot call up those dazzling 
ghosts ? Barbara Palmer — beautiful, what- 
ever clothes she wore, whosesoever hat she put 
on in freakish mood, irresistible whatever 
she said or did, continually offending her 
Royal lover, and always forgiven ; rollicking, 
warm-hearted Nelly ; or the patrician Louise 
de QuerouaiHe, that lovely diplomatist in 
petticoats, sent across the Channel to turn 
Rowley round her finger, and to gain the 
Grand Monarque's political ends ; and so turn- 
ing him round that delicate finger for the rest 
of his days. Evelyn's description of her 
lodgings in Whitehall — "twice or thrice 
pulled down and rebuilt to satisfy her 
prodigal and expensive pleasures — Japan 
cabinets, screens, pendule clocks, great vases 
of wrought plate, chimney furniture, sconces, 
branches, brasenas, all of massive silver, and 
out of number " — gives the measure of smart 
surroundings in those days. A sprinkling of 
diamonds, some Russian sables, were not 
enough to satisfy a Royal favourite in the 
reign of our second Charles. 

A joyous Court, in which a double set of 
maids of honour, the Queen's and the 
Duchess of York's, were the mark for 
audacious gallantry, wits like Rochester and 
De Grammont, great nobles like Talbot and 
Bristol, constantly in pursuit of these attrac- 
tive creatures, all of whom were beautiful — 
or at least Lely made them so— and a few of 
whom were virtuous, like the bewitching Miss 
Jennings, and kept those fiery lovers at a 
distance, foremost among whom, the leaders 
of the chase, appeared the Duke of York, and 
his much more attractive, although not much 
handsomer, brother, King Charles. 

After a reign so brilliant, the apotheosis of 
splendid profligacy, all smartness of the 
Hanoverian period shows dull and pale, and 
yet in the gay gossip of Walfole and c * Hervey 



the handsome," and Lady Maty Montagu, 
one finds all the elements of the true smart 
set, the adventurous humour, and daring 
eccentricity, as shown in the famous Vauxhall 
supper, where the chickens were minced and 
cooked by a fine lady's fingers, while the 
wondering crowd looked on; the syllabub 
and al fresco meal at Strawberry Hill, where, 
this time, only the cow looked on, Wal pole's 
smart set moved less in the light that beats 
upon a throne, yet one reads of Royal primes 
dropping in unexpectedly at Strawberry, The 
bucks and beauties of King George II.'s days 
were conspicuous at Royal birthdays, in new 
and splendid clothes, never to be worn again 
by patrician owners, but passed on to some 
favorite actor, who figured as Hamlet or 
Macbeth in the velvet coat and satin 
breeches that had cost his Grace or his most 
noble lordship a small fortune for bullion 
and embroidery. Men and women of 

fashion paid all honour to the sturdy, keen- 
witted little King, but they did not depend 
on him for a leader and inspire? of modish 
things. He was Royal, but he never was 

It was a dull thing, that smartness of 
Strawberry and Stowe — even though Italian 
opera singers might perch in the trees at a 
festival and make the night musical with 
expensive carollings; even though money 
might be poured out like water — as com- 
pared with the wanton glories of Whitehall. 
Powder and patches and brocade sacques 
seem prim and old-maidish beside the waving 
ringlets, and the loosely flowing gowns, slipping 
off peerless shoulders, that Lely painted. The 
zenith had been passed when Charles Stuart 
put in his dying plea for " poor Nelly,* and 
turned his face to the wall ; and there was 
never again to be anything quite so wicked 
or quite so brilliant in English society. 




Original from 


EANE suspended the operation 
of cracking a walnut and, with- 
out appearing to do so, looked 
curiously at a man who had 
entered the dining-room and 
was making his way to a table 
at the far end of the room. He was a middle- 
aged man, but looked prematurely old ; his 
hair was as white as snow, his face sallow and 
drawn as if by ill health or trouble, and he 
walked with bent head and without glancing 
to right or left, as if he were absorbed in 
thought. No out: could have taken him for 
anything hut a gentleman, and there was 
a hint of that indescribable distinguishing 
quality which attracts the attention of the 
most careless observer, 

" Who was that ? " asked Deane. 
Wynter, a journalist, one of the two men 
who were dining with him, replied : — 

* 4 You don't mean lo say you haven't met 
Trafforde— Sir Gordon Traffbrde ? " 

"Yes, I have/' said Deane, slowly, "Three 
times -once in Damascus, once in Smyrna, 
and, strangely enough, once in a cheap 
restaurant Soho way j but I never had any 
speech with him, and this is the first time 
I've heard his name. There seems a mystery 
about him. He is a member here, of course?" 
They were at the Eastern Club, 

" Yes," replied Somers, " but he only drops 
in occasionally and at long intervals. Like 
yourself, he's a great traveller, and I should 




say that, excepting yourself, he knows more 
about the East than anyone here; and that's 
saying a great deal. He J s a tremendously 
wealthy man, but he lives alone and appears 
to make very few friends," 

While they were still sitting there, Sir 
Gordon finished his dinner and walked 
towards the door ; and as he passed the 
three men he raised his eyes, not his head, 
and glanced at them. Deane met the glance 
and was startled by it ; for he had never 
before seen so strange an expression in any 
eyes. They were very dark, almost black, 
and the expression was one of intense sadness 
and piercing scrutiny ; the look of a man 
who is in search of something and despairs 
of finding it. He recognized Wynter, and in 
response to his nod made a slight inclination 
of the head and passed on, 

Somerfc went off to a reception, where his 
presence as a famous novelist was ardently 
desired, and Deane proposed that Wynter 
should go to his rooms to see some curios 
which Deane had brought home with him. 
On their way Wynter was strangely silent 
and thoughtful, and after he had examined 
the curios and the two men were ensconced 
in easy -chairs, with the whisky and soda 
between them and their pipes going satis- 
factorily, he said : — 

" Look here, Deane, there is a story about 
Traffordfiri 911 dMWin Want to let on before 
SoWM^MftVteH*K]»5^ couldn't refrain 

> 7 8 


from making 'copy' of it; but I'll tell you, 
because I know you can keep your head 
shut. I know Trafforde very well, though 
he only vouchsafes me a nod : we were at 
Harrow together. He was very popular 
there, and at Oxford too, though you 
wouldn't think it to look at him. He came 
into the title and the property when he was 
quite young— about twenty-two, I think — 
and we all thought he would be caught 
by some girl in his own set and settle down 
into the usual kind of country gentleman; 
but, to our surprise and the outspoken dis- 
appointment of his people, he fell in love with 
a stranger — a foreigner ; quite an outsider, 
in fact — daughter of a Turkish merchant who 
had made his pile and settled in London ; a 
political exile. I forget his name, but it doesn't 
matter. She was a beautiful creature— of 
course, of the Oriental type. Trafford had 
a rival— a young countryman of the girl's : 
quite a handsome fellow, with pretty manners, 
but with something about him that suggested 
the tiger. Her was madly in love wit K the 
girl — you know how thorough the Oriental is 
in love or hate — and I rather fancy that 
papa had favoured his suit until Trafforde 
appeared on the scene ; but fhe daughter 
preferred Trafforde, and they were married. 

" Trafforde took her down to his place in 
Hampshire, and they lived very happily. 
They were kind enough to ask me down 
there once or twice. A little girl was born, 
and then Lady Trafforde began to fog off, 
as the doctors call it — nothing serious the 
matter, but a general weakness and want of 
tone. Some medico, cleverer than the rest, 
hit upon the cause of the trouble. She was 
pining for her native land, for the warmth, 
the colour, the atmosphere " 

Deane nodded. " I know," he said, 
musingly. "It's the 'Call of the East'; 
they all feel it. Though I'm an English- 
man, I've felt it myself; and though we 
Occidentals may find it fairly easy to resist 
it, by the true Oriental the craving is well- 
nigh irresistible." 

" Quite so," assented Wynter. " And the 
climatic and social conditions of a country 
place in England would not help Lady 
Trafforde to get over the longing. Trafforde 
took his wife and little girl on an Eastern 
trip. They went to Smyrna, where I fancy 
Lady Trafforde was born ; she picked up 
wonderfully, and they were enjoying them- 
selves in a quiet way, when out from the 
blue shot one of those bolts which shatter 
and wreck people's lives. 

"One afternoon the nurse, a Greek girl, 

who had charge of the child and in whom the 
Traffordes had every confidence, disappeared 
with the little girl. They were last seen 
walking in the bazaar, and, so far as I know, 
have never been seen since. Trafforde, half 
mad with grief, made every possible attempt 
to find them, called in the aid of the police, 
even went to the Sultan; but the pair had 
disappeared — to use the hackneyed phrase — 
as if the earth had suddenly opened, swallowed 
them up, and closed again. The unhappy 
mother went quite mad, and, perhaps for- 
tunately for her, died a month or two later. 
Sounds an incredible kind of story, doesn't it?" 

"Not at all," replied Deane, gravely and 
thoughtfully. "This must have happened, 
some twenty years ago ; it would have been 
quite easy then for the girl and the child to 
have been kidnapped in the bazaar and dis- 
posed of without leaving any clue behind 
them. If you knew the place, you'd say that 
it wouldn't be very difficult now. Of course, 
one can give a pretty accurate guess at the 
identity of the abductor — the young fellow, 
the disappointed rival. Our friend the Turk 
does not like the woman he loves taken from 
him ; there is always something of the tiger, 
the cat about him, and he can bide his time ; 
he has a vast capacity for patience when it is 
a question of love, money, or revenge. And I 
suppose Sir Gordon is still searching for his 

"Yes," replied Wynter, with a shrug of 
his shoulders. " You saw that by the expres- 
sion of his face. Of course, the quest is a 
hopeless one. The odds are that both the 
nurse and the child were done to death ; and 
even if the child were living, it would be 
almost impossible to trace her. She must 
be a young woman by this time; must regard 
herself as a Turk — Turkish women are closely 
veiled, as closely guarded. Yes ; I am afraid 
poor Trafforde's search is quite hopeless. 
But he still keeps at it; you met him, you 
know, in Damascus and Smyrna. Miserable 
sort of story, and I almost wish I hadn't told 
you. Don't repeat it, Deane ; it's pretty well 
forgotten now— even Somers doesn't know it ; 
and we don't want the whole thing served up 
in the newspapers as a sensational item." 

" I hope I am discreet," said Deane. 

Wynter put on his hat and coat, and at 
the door he said he supposed that Deane 
would settle down in London for a time ; and 
Deane said that it was his intention to do so, 
that he should like to look at the theatres and 
meet his old pals, and get some clothes. 

Deane took the s;iorj to bed with him and 
woke up with it— like a headache — in the 



morning. It followed him about for days 
and spoilt his "holiday"; which was a pity, 
for he possessed a capacity for enjoyment, 
was young, fit, remarkably well off, and, 
though somewhat taciturn, of a cheerful 
disposition. The weather was bad — it was 
late in September. And a wet autumn in 
London ! He felt restless, felt the call of 
the East acutely ; and three weeks later he 
was sauntering through the bazaar at Smyrna. 

There may be a more amazing place, but 
the present writer has not yet seen it ; and, 
though Deane knew it very well, the fascina- 
tion of the wonderful bazaar again held him 
in thrall. The alleys were warm with the 
soft but penetrating heat peculiar to the 
East; through slits and broken places of 
the roof the sun shot gleams of light and 
colour on the rich stuffs piled in the stores, 
the real and sham curios ; on the marvellous 
costumes of the crowd — Turks, Greeks, 
Kurds, Albanians — through which Deane 
passed* But for the presence of a few 
motley Europeans— and even most of these 
wore the fez — the extraordinary place looked 
as it might have looked a matter of three 
thousand years ago. 

Every now and then the noise of the 
bazaar, which was like the exaggerated 
buzzing of a hive of bees, was broken by the 
tinkle of bells as a man, mounted on a 
donkey, emerged from one of the galleries, 
followed by a chained string of noiselessly- 
stepping camels, whose heads touched the 
carpets and rugs and embroidered silks hang- 
ing from the shops on either side of the 
narrow way. It was a scene from the Arabian 
Nights, and, moving amidst it, one could 
find it easy to believe in all the super- 
natural marvels of the ancient stories. A 
possible genie might be imprisoned in one of 
the huge jars lying around ; the man on the 
donkey might have been Ali Baba himself, 
on his way to the secret cave. Surely that 
was Morgiana tripping across the opening 
yonder; and as surely that was the great 
Caliph Haroun al-Raschid disguised as a 
calender, and followed by an apprehensive 
but faithful Vizier; and the weather-beaten old 
sailor who trudged with rolling gait must of 
certainty be Sindbad himself. Oh, wonderful 
place ! 

Sauntering is an art which is only to be 
learned to perfection in the East, and Deane 
himself, in his suit of white ducks and his 
scarlet fez, had something of the air of an 
Oriental as he moved slowly between the 
rows of stalls, his cigarette between his lips, 
his hands folded behind him, so that the 

picturesque figures beside their various 
merchandise blinked and peered at him 
curiously, as if they were uncertain what to 
make of him ; and when Deane stopped at a 
stall and made a small purchase, he spoke 
such correct Arabic that the hunchbacked 
Turk who served him murmured the begin- 
ning of the well-known line of the Moham- 
medan religious formula, "Allah akbar" 
("God is the greatest"), and Deane in- 
stantly gave the response, "00 Mhummed 
rasool Allah" ("And Mohammed is his 
Messenger "). 

A little farther on he turned down an alley 
into one of the small open-air courts, or 
kahns, in which the camels and their drivers 
rest. It was a delightful little spot, a kind 
of oasis ; the camels were munching their 
hay in the shadow of a broad palm, a 
fountain tinkled subdued music, which 
chimed with the bells gently swaying, as the 
patient animals turned their heads. Deane 
seated himself by the fountain and leant 
back to enjoy the fresh air, the clear, clean 
sunlight which filled the little square, and 
through half closed eyes indolently regarded 
his surroundings. 

The four sides of the kahn were occupied by 
the usual small shops and dwelling-places ; the 
latter, with their heavily-barred windows and 
closely-shut doors, giving an air of secrecy to 
the place, that touch of mystery and romance 
which belongs to all things Eastern. Lulled 
by the influence of the place, the drowsy air, 
Deane closed his eyes, but suddenly he was 
aware of a light footstep near him. He 
looked up and saw Sir Gordon Trafforde 
moving slowly past the camels and their 
sleeping drivers. 

Deane was not surprised at Trafforde's 
presence, for, naturally enough, he had been 
thinking of him and his history. He did not 
rise, but he leant forward rather eagerly to 
see if Trafforde would glance towards him ; 
but the wretched man passed on and dis- 
appeared through a narrow opening in the 
square which Deane had hitherto not noticed. 
He was thoroughly awakened now, and he 
was rising to leave the court when two veiled 
figures, with the noiseless steps of the Turkish 
women, crossed his path. The upper parts 
of their faces alone were visible, of course ; 
but he saw that one of the women was very 
old and the other a young girl. 

The old woman did not raise her eyes, but 
the girl turned her head slightly and glanced 
at him. Deane started and stood stock still, 
his teeth dosing sharply on his cigarette. 
H^s sudden emotion was not caused by the 



wonderful beauty of the eyes, but by the fact 
of their extraordinary resemblance to those 
of the man who had just gone into the dart 
alley, They were an exact reproduction of 
Trafforde's eyes, but wore, instead of the 
harassed, haunted look, the dreamy sadness, 
the latent tenderness of a girl's. 

She had evidently noticed his start of 
surprise, for she put up a white hand and 
drew the veil higher. As she did so she 
stepped on a piece of melon-skin and slipped* 
She would have recovered herself easily 

rose, sprang to her feet, drew her veil quite 
over her face, and was hurried off by the oid 
woman, who muttered imprecations and 
fluently cursed her companion for her 
mishap. They disappeared down the alley 
which Trafforde had entered ; and Deane, 
who was not guilty of looking after thera t 
went out of the square. 

He told himself, as he went outside the 
bazaar, that he had only imagined the 
resemblance^ that he was obsessed by the 
Trafforde tragedy, and that the best thing 


enough, but the old woman made an im- 
patient, angry clutch at her arm, causing the 
girl to lose her footing and bringing her to 
thi; ground. 

Forgetting for the moment that he was 
forbidden to approach or touch a girl of her 
race* Deane involuntarily made a movement 
towards her ; but he checked himself in 
time, and before a reclining Turk, who up 
to the present had watched the accident 
with phlegmatic indifference, could utter a 
threatening growl. The girl, crimson as a 

he could do would be to clear out of Smyrna* 
the East itself, without delay ; but the girl's 
eyes haunted him, floated before him per 
sistently* He could not keep out of the 
bazaar; he felt drawn towards the square; 
and later in the evening he returned to it, 
Trafforde was sitting on the stone bench 
beside the fountain, his arms folded, his head 
on his chest \ he was asleep. 

Deane felt that he was intruding on the 
man, and he turned ;*v»uy ; when suddenly a 
man ^f^^|]5|q^ f^ ths mouth of the 



narrow alley and glided towards the sleeper. 
Deane stepped behind a pile of bales and 
waited. The man, half crouching, drew 
nearer Sir Gordon, paused for a moment to 
look round cautiously, then made a grab for 
Sir Gordon's watch. 

Now, Deane knew that it would be better 
for the sleeping man to lose his watch than 
that the denizens of the place should be 
aroused ; for twtf Europeans would stand but 
a poor chance in such a place against even a 
small mob of utterly reckless and ruthless 
Orientals ; so he hoped that the thief would 
secure the watch without waking its owner. 
But the man must have been clumsy, for Sir 
Gordon felt his touch, woke instantly, sprang 
to his feet, and grabbed the thief. The man 
uttered a cry of surprise, terror — was it one 
of recognition? — and snatched out a knife. 
But Deane had moved the moment he saw 
that interference was inevitable, and, before 
the knife could descend, he struck the thief 
on the corner of the jaw and felled him. 

The two Englishmen looked steadily at 
each other, after the fashion of their class, 
across the prostrate figure; then, before Sir 
Gordon could speak, Deane said, in a sharp 
whisper: — 

" We must get him away before any of his 
friends come. Quick ! " 

Without another word they dragged the 
uneonscious man into the alley. 

" He'll come to presently," whispered 
Deane. "We'd better clear." 

As he spoke he saw a streak of light in the 
wall ; a door had opened silently ; a face 
peered out ; it was the old woman's ; Deane 
recognized her by a scar under the left eye. 
The face was there for a moment only ; the 
door was closed softly ; the alley was dark 
again. The two men left the court and 
silently passed through the dusky bazaar into 
the open street. 

" I am greatly indebted to you, sir," said 
Sir Gordon, at last ; " the fellow would 
probably have stabbed me." 

" I am very glad I was there, Sir Gordon," 
said Deane. 

Si r Gordon stopped and looked keenly at him. 

"You know me?" he said. u Will you 
tell me your name?" 

Deane told him. They walked on for 
some minutes, again in silence, Sir Gordon's 
head bent, his brows drawn together ; then 
presently Deane said : — 

"Of course, you will leave Smyrna as 
soon as possible, Sir Gordon. It would be 
dangerous to remain. These folk don't take 
a blow lying down " 

Vol. xxxix. — 36- 

Ik don't t 

" And you ? You also are in danger." 

"I think not. The man did not see my 
face ; I struck him from behind." 

" Yes ; I suppose I had better go," said 
Sir Gordon, frowning. " I am not afraid of 
the consequences ; I mean, I'm not afraid of 
being attacked ; but, for reasons with which 
I need not trouble you, I do not want to 
attract attention. I should be relieved to hear 
that you also intend to leave." 

But Deane, who an hour before had been 
resolved to go, was now as resolved to stay. 

"I have business here which will detain 
me," he said. " I shall be quite safe." 

Sir Gordon accepted the reason with an 
almost Oriental gesture of resignation. 

" I regret to hear it," he said. " I am 
naturally uneasy on your account, Mr. Deane, 
and I shall be glad if you will write to me." 
He set down on a scrap of paper the name 
of an hotel at Athens. u I shall be there in 
a week from now, and shall be very glad — 
and relieved— to see you or hear tidings of 
you. I will not again attempt to thank you ; 
but I beg yoiu to believe that I am very 
grateful . Good- bye. " 

Deane did a foolhardy thing; he went 
back to the square. It was quite quiet ; the 
man was no longer lying where Trafforde 
and Deane had placed him. Deane's steam 
yacht lay just outside the bay ; he had 
himself rowed to it, paced the deck until a 
late hour that night, and when he turned in 
he could not sleep. A great traveller like 
Deane acquires the conviction that the most 
extraordinary coincidences are credible ; and 
he felt that it was quite possible that the 
capricious god, Chance, had thrown him 
across the path of Trafforde's lost daughter. 
But how was he to prove it ? To inform Sir 
Gordon of his suspicions might raise hopes 
which, if they were baseless, would only add 
to the unhappy man's misery. 

He rose in the morning resolved to give 
his skipper orders to up-anchor and go on to 
the Black Sea ; but, instead of doing so, he 
put on a Turkish costume and went ashore. 
It seemed very unlikely to him that anyone 
would identify him as the white-clad English- 
man of yesterday, and he sauntered about 
the bazaar, attracting no attention, so far as 
he knew. 

In the afternoon he went into the kahn, 
which was now filled with camels and drivers, 
and almost as noisy as the bazaar itself. In a 
listless fashion he strolled down the alley. 
It proved to be a connecting link with one 
of the galleries, mci hti was joining the crowd 
passing tbvough il: when he became aware of 



the fact that he was being followed ; a 
woman, dressed in black and veiled, was 
always close behind him or at his elbow. 
He stopped at a stall, affecting to examine a 
real or counterfeit antique; and as he did so 
the woman, pretending to adjust her veil, 
whispered in Arabic : — 

"Follow me." 

In a leisurely fashion Deane haggled over 
the article and then followed her. She led 
him to a retired 
spot at the end 
of the gallery and, 
after looking at 
him fears o me I y, 
said : — 

" You know 

14 Of course /'re- 
sponded Deane, 
promptly, and 
as he carefully lit 
a cigarette* 

"What is it 
you want?" she 

"The girl," 
replied Deane, 
quietly, almost 

The woman's 
sharp, black eyes 
fixed themselves 
on his piercingly* 

" Where is the 
other? "sheasked* 

"The girl's 
father? He has 
gone." The 
woman drew a 
breath of relief, 
and Deaneadded, 
as quietly as be- 
fore, " But I can 
bring him back." 

" There is no 
need," she said, 
quickly. " I fear 
him* He is mad 
I do not want 

bloodshed. You are in search of the girl ? 
You have found her. Allah is great. It was 
not my fault ; it was Abdul, my son, who stole 
her years ago* You have hurt him ; his jaw 
is broken," 

"Abdul, your son, was the man I hit 
yesterday?" said Deane, phlegmatically. 

The woman nodded and sighed, " Yes. 


You are an Englishman, like that other, 
Zela's father; you are of a nation hard to 
contend against. Like us, you can wait and 
wait. I have always told Abdul that the day 
would come when he would have to give up 
the girl or pay the price. The time has 
come. You shall have her." 

Deane's heart beat fast, but in the same 
cool, almost indifferent way he said : "Your 
action is wise. The nurse who was kid- 
napped with the 

She spread out 
her hands, shrug- 
ged her shoulders, 
and shook her 

" She is dead 
— dead years ago. 
What matters it ? 
Allah is great and 
bountiful, and 
loves the giver : 
you will deal 
generously with 
your servant?" 

" Fifty pounds 
in English 
money," was 
Dearie's curt 
response to this 

A dash of 
colour rose to 
the old woman's 
sallow face, and 
she lowered her 
eyes to conceal 
the gleam of satis- 
faction that shone 
in them, 

" It is accep- 
ted," she said. 
I£ If I give her to 
you, you will be 
satisfied; you will 
not seek for ven- 
geance ; you will 
leave me and my 
son alone ? " 
** Agreed," said 
Deane, "But the girl— Zela, you call her? 
— she will leave you willingly ; she will come 
with me? " 

The old woman raised her eyes, "She 
has been brought up well ; she will do as 
she is bid and will go with you. But do not 
think that she has been ill treated. I am fond 

of he Ui^«TT^™f&^W rtwith her ' 



Will not the Effendi give me more? No? 
But there is English blood in her, and she 
will be glad to go, for she has never been 
happy. She is not one of us." She stretched 
out a lean claw, and, touching Deane's arm, 
regarded him with intense earnestness. "She 
is as innocent as the day on which Abdul 
stole her. She has been the apple of my 
eye ; I have guarded her from all evil. The 
Effendi understands?" 

" Good ! " said Deane. Though he uttered 
the word indifferently enough, he drew a 
breath of relief and satisfaction, 

" I will bring her here at the asha," She 
m?ant the hour of evening prayer. " I will 
tell her that I have sold her to you." 

For the life of him Deane could not 
prevent the colour rising to his face, 

" Is that necessary?" he asked. 

" How otherwise to account for her trans- 
ference to you ? " she retorted, with a shrug 
of her shoulders. 

" Let it be so," said Deane. " I will be 
here at asha." 

She moved her hand in assent and turned 
away ; but Deane stayed her. 

"Abdul, your son. What will he say — 
do — when he knows ? " 

She looked confused for a moment, then 
s ? ie said quickly : — 

" He must not know. He would want a 
share— but it would not be fair. Have I not 
waited on her, watched over her, all these 
years? The reward should be mine— mine 
alone. The Effendi sees this justice. He 
will give the money to me, to me only, and 
will keep his lips closed?" 

"I will bring the money," said Deane. 

With a nod of satisfaction she stole away, 
and Deane sauntered out of the bazaar and 
made his way to the quay. He was a level- 
headed man, but he was throbbing with 
excitement, with the thrill of success. In 
the most extraordinary fashion he had found 
what Sir Gordon had been seeking for 
years. He was pushing his way through the 
crowd when he literally ran against a lady of 
his acquaintance, a Mrs. Selwyn, whom he 
had not seen for years. Mrs. Selwyn was a 
member of the Smart Set and a globe-trotter, 
but harmless. In response to his muttered 
apology, she caught his arm and exclaimed 
in the shrill tones which, alas ! are now 
fashionable in ' Society ' : — 

" My dear Mr. Deane ! I shouldn't have 
recognized you, if you had not spoken ! Why 
on earth are you masquerading in that 
picturesque costume ? Though, of course, 
I am not surprised at meeting you anywhere^ 

or at anything you do. You are so delight- 
fully eccentric ! I suppose that pretty yacht 
in the bay is yours? Come and dine with 
me at the Crescent, will you? Now, don't 
say J No.' I want to be able to boast when 
I go back to London that I have met the 
Mr. Deane in Smyrna." 

" Thanks ; I can't dine with you, Mrs. 
Selwyn," said Deane, " but you shall <jine 
with me on the yacht, if you will be so 
gracious. Is your husband here ? " 

Mrs. Selwyn shrugged her shoulders and 
laughed a perfectly composed laugh. 

" Good gracious, no ! " she exclaimed. 
"He is at Mark Lane, as usual. I am all 
by my little lonesome— also as usual." 

" What are your plans ? " asked Deane, 
with a preoccupied air. 

" Haven't any," she replied, ignoring his 
abruptness; for much has to be ignored 
when one is dealing with a man of Deane's 
importance and celebrity. 

"That's splendid," said Deane. "I will 
take you on with me, if you like. There are 
a couple of maid-servants on board" 

"All right," she responded, with a laugh. 
" I shall be delighted ! I'll come on board 
at eight o'clock." 

. Deane went to the yacht and made 
preparations for two lady visitors ; then he 
returned to the bazaar, still wearing his cos- 
tume. At the time appointed he sauntered 
to the spot where he had parted with the old 
woman. As he waited in a dusky corner he 
heard, rising from a neighbouring turret of 
one of the mosques, the muezzin's call to 
evening prayers : — 

God is greatest ! 

I testify that there is no God besides God ! 

I testify that M hummed is the Messenger of God ! 

Pray ye ! Pray ye ! Pray ye ! 

The solemn tones, the more solemn words, 
Deane had often heard, but they had never 
before found an echo in his heart as they did 
at this moment Thrice the muezzin made 
the call in notes drawn out, until he had 
completed the circuit of the gallery of the 
turret ; and as the weird sounds died away 
two veiled figures emerged from a side alley 
and approached the spot where Deane stood. 

Deane scarcely glanced at the girl as he 
slipped the gold into the old woman's skinny 
hand. She addressed a few hurried words 
to the girl, murmured to Deane, " I have 
your promise* Allah is great ! " and slid 
into the crowd. 

Deane stood beside Z«la in silence for a 
moment or two, absolutely tongue-tied ; then 

he Lffltf€R$ffTO ffll AffiS&f- 



" You understand, Zela ? You are willing 
to come with me ? " 

" I am willing, Effendi," she said. " You 
will take me to my father — the father Zorah 
has told me about?" 

Something in the soft, musical voice set 
Deane's heart throbbing; it was so like 

" That is so," he said. " I will take you to 
your father, from whom you were stolen 
long ago." 

" It is good," she murmured. " I am the 
Effendi's servant." 

" No \ it is I who am the servant," said 
Deane. " Let us go." 

Not another word passed between th^m as 
they went through the gallery. Desiring to 
avoid attention, Deane struck down a narrow 
alley which led to the quay. They had no 
sooner entered it than a man stepped out 
from a doorway, blocking the alley from 
behind ; another man as stealthily blocked 
the other end of it ; the man facing Deane 
had a dirty, blood-stained bandage tied round 
his face. It was, of course, Abdul. Deane 
knew that he had been sold. With Oriental 
cunning the mother and son had concocted 
quite a neat little plot ; she had succeeded in 
securing fifty pounds for the girl, who was to 
be snatched from him and resold to him, or 
removed to a distant part of the country and 
used as a means of blackmail. 

By the light of a small oil-lamp Deane 
could just discern the man's face ; it had no 
doubt once been handsome, as YVynter had 
said ; but it was now a very evil countenance 
indeed, and rendered all the more so by 
the hate and fury and thirst for blood and 
revenge which distorted it. Deane glanced 
behind him and saw that Abdul's accomplice 
was a much younger man, a burly ruffian of 
the lowest type. 

Quite unarmed as he was, and caught in 
such a trap as the alley provided, Deane felt 
that he and the girl were in dire peril ; the 
two men would spring upon him simul- 
taneously and, hampered by Zela, who was 
clinging to his arm, Deane would scarcely be 
able to get a blow in. But it was not his 
first little difficulty of the kind, and he 
was accustomed to dealing with emergencies. 
Whispering to Zela, "Throw yourself down 
close against the wall," he sprang at the lamp 
and tore it from its rickety fastenings. 

Almost at the same instant the two scoun- 
drels rushed forward, eager to prevent the 
escape of their prey. Deane dropped to his 
hands and knees against the wall close beside 
Zela, and, gripping the leg of the man nearer 

to him, brought him to the ground. It chanced 
to be Abdul. His accomplice stumbled over 
him, and they lay clutching at each other in 
their confusion and swearing horribly. 

" Quick ! " exclaimed Deane. 

The girl, with the alertness of her race and 
age, glided to the opening. Abdul got to his 
feet before Deane could pass him, and he 
struck at Deane with a long Arab knife. 
Deane felt the blade pierce his left arm. He 
caught Abdul by the throat and knocked his 
head twice against the wall with such force 
that Abdul staggered and fell again. Deane 
rushed out, took Zela's hand, and hurried her 
towards the boat. He feared that she would 
be terrified out of her wits, and expected her 
to scream ; he was about to utter a word 
of reassurance, but as he looked at her and 
met her gaze he saw that no such word was 
necessary. Neither English nor Turk can be 
charged with cowardice, and there was the 
blood of both races in Zela's veins. 

They dared not run lest they should attract 
attention, but they walked quickly, and had 
almost gained the boat when they heard 
shouts behind them, and Deanp, glancing 
over his shoulder, saw half-a-dozen men 
running after them. The bo'sun in charge of 
the yacht's boat came up the steps to see 
what the row was. 

"Go with that man, Zela; he is my 
servant," said Deane, and she was about to 
obey him, but at the moment one of the 
harbour officials stepped in front of them ; 
and it must be confessed that Deane's heart 
sank, for this man's interference would mean 
their detention and a full and awkward 

At the sipht of the policeman in his 
imposing uniform the little mob of pursuers 
pulled up, and in a stealthy way they all made 
off, excepting Abdul, who, for the moment 
regardless of his own safety, stood his ground, 
glaring at Deane vindictively and foaming at 
the mouth. 

"What is the matter?" inquired the 

"This man is a thief," said Deane, in 
Arabic ; " he attacked me in the alley there 
and tried to rob me " 

" It's a lie ! " screamed Abdul " He has 
stolen one of my women " 

The officer looked inquiringly at Deane 
and the girl. 

" What do you say ? " he asked of the 

Abdul's charge prompted the response 
which, like a flash of lightning, sprang to 
Deane's brairfr'nyH^rrernembered that the 




^man had "sold" Zela to him. She was 
therefore his. 

"She is mine — my wife," he said* almost 
casually and with a shrug of the shoulders. 

Abdul was about to hurst out with a 
Passionate denial, but the official held up his 
{^fld. Looking searchingly at Zel^ he said, 
jufoiatty : " Does he speak truly ? Are you 
his wife?" 

crimson which he knew 
was flooding her face. 
There was a moment's 
pause, but a moment's 
only ; then she said, in a 
low voice, *■ I am." 

The officer gave another 
shrug of his shoulders and 
motioned the stuttering, 
gesticulating Abdul away. 
Hut the path was not yet 
clear* The representative 
of peace and order cast a 
suspicious and doubtful 
eye at the obviously 
English boat and the 
particularly British looking 
ho'sun and crew. 

"That is the boat be- 
longing to the Feringhee's 
yacht in the bay. Why 
are you taking your wife 
there ?" he asked, 

44 1 am the servant of the 
Kurin ghee," replied Dearie, 
14 He permits my wife to 
visit the ship." 

u Pass on/' said the 
policeman, with a lordly 
and protective air. 

In a leisurely fashion 
Deane assisted Zela into 
the boat, and they rowed 
towards the yacht, leaving 
Abdul gesticulating vehe- 
mently at an im [losing 
figure in gold lace, who 
was regarding him with 
the placid indifference of 
official contempt. 

As Deane led Zela up 
the gangway of the yacht, 
Mrs. Selwyn, who had been 
watching their arrival, 
approached them with 
amazement depicted on 
her pretty little face. 

11 Oh, glad you are here, 

Mrs. Selwyn, 1 ' said Deane, 

coolly. "This young lady is a daughter of 

a friend of mine. Will you please take charge 

of her? Her state room adjoins yours." 

Mrs. Selwyn breathed a little hard ; but 
she checked the stream of questions which 
rose to her lips and disappeared down the 
companion-way with Zela- Deane changed 
into evening dress, leant over the rail, 
and watched (Begrnilatlrfroithe yacht dashed 

ftaine averted his eyes to avoid seeing the through | jjtJfv'^RNT^ Qf^KHlfel^ " 1 ^" 1 ^ 



had got aboard he had told the skipper to 
up-anchor. A few minutes before the dinner- 
bell, Mrs. Selwyn, in all her evening glory, 
came to his side. An expression of amuse- 
ment lurked in her eyes and about the 
corners of her mouth. 

" I am afraid Miss Zela will be a few 
minutes longer. By the way, what is her 
other name, Mr. Deane ? " 

" i Zela ' will do for the present," replied 
Deane, with a smile. " I hope she is quite 
well and happy ; we left Smyrna rather 

"So she tells me, through one of the maids 
who speaks Arabic," said Mrs. Selwyn. "And 
that is about all she has told me ! I suppose 
you have known her for a long time ? " 

"Since yesterday," said Deane. "I am 
sorry to say that that is as far as I can go in 
the way of satisfying what I admit is your 
legitimate curiosity, Mrs. Selwyn," he added, 
in response to her saucer-like eyes ; " but I 
promise that it shall be satisfied within a few 
days. By the way, have you any objection 
to going to Athens ? " 

" Not in the least," she replied, with 
charming promptitude. " I am quite pre- 
pared to go anywhere with you — now that I 
have another lady with me." 

She ran away from him, the dinner-bell 
rang, and Deane went down to the saloon. 
The two ladies were not present, but in a 
minute or two they entered, and as he looked 
at them his hand closed tightly on the back 
of the chair against which he was standing. 
The Turkish girl in her all-concealing robe 
and veil had disappeared, and in her place 
was a graceful young lady, attired in the 
last thing in the way of frocks ! 

But it was not the change in her attire 
which startled Deane ; it was the fact that 
she was one of the loveliest girls he had ever 

Mrs. Selwyn eyed his amazement and con- 
fusion with mischievous enjoyment, but she 
came to the blushing girl's aid with womanly 

" Fine feathers make fine birds, don't 
they? By the mercy of Providence, Mr. 
Deane, Miss Zela and I are about the same 
size ; and I really do think that rose du 
Barry frock of mine suits her very well, 
don't you ? " 

" I do," almost gasped Deane, as he sank 
into his chair and tried to keep his eyes off 
the beautiful, downcast face. 

He pulled himself together after awhile 
and returned the shuttlecock of chatter to 
Mrs. Selwyn's deft service. Zela scarcely 

spoke, though he addressed her now and then 
in Arabic; but she stole frequent glances 
at him, and once or twice he caught 
her regarding him with dreamy intensity. 
Deane knew that he would have to have a 
talk with her, and Mrs. Selwyn must have 
known it also; for when they all three 
went on deck she left them together, first 
whispering to Deane : — 

" Isn't she lovely — and graceful ? Oh, 
you must let me trot her round and show 
her off when we get back to London, What 
a sensation she will make ! " 

" I am afraid you have been very frightened 
and upset, Zela," he said, "and that this 
sudden change in your life is troubling you." 

She was leaning against the rail, and 
she raised her eyes to his with a childish and 
yet womanly gravity. 

" No," she said, softly. " I think I have 
always expected it, Effendi. I do not know 
why, but as soon as I began to understand I 
felt Abdul was not my father. He and Zorah 
quarrelled sometimes and said things which 
made me think ; and once I found some 
baby's clothes which I knew were mine, 
and they were not those of a Turkish child's, 
but those of a Feringhee. And the night 
before Zorah brought me to you she told me 
the truth ; that is, some of it, perhaps — 
not all." 

"I am glad," said Deane. "You know 
that you are quite safe here, that I am taking 
you to your father at Athens. He has been 
searching for you ever since you were stolen 
by Abdul. We shall soon reach your father, 
and I shall hand you over to him ; mean- 
while, I hope you will be as happy as you 
can on board the ship." 

" I am happy," she said. " I am glad to 
leave Abdul and Zorah. But do I remain 
long with my father?" 

"Eh?" said Deane. "I don't quite 

understand Of course, you will remain 

with him — live with him always." 

" Oh ! " she said, with obvious surprise 
and almost as obvious a disappointment. 
"Zorah told me that you had bought me, 

Deane turned his head away to hide his 
embarrassment and dismay. 

"That's a mistake," he said. "It was a 
ruse— a trick. Christians do not hold slaves." 

" But I am your wife ; I belong to you, am 
your property ! " she said, looking puzzled. 
" You said so on the quay — if you remember." 

"That also was a necessary subterfuge," 
said poor Deane. "We should not have got 
off unless I had s^pp^^py do not distress 







yourself ; I assure you I have no claim what- 
ever to you —you are quite free,* 

She regarded him gravely and in silence 
for a moment or two, during which Deanc 
was troubled by various emotions, amongst 
which was the absurd desire that he had 
really bought her ; then she said :■ — 

t( May I wear my veil again ? " 

" I am afraid not," he replied. " Your 
father is an Englishman, as you may be aware ; 
you are English ; and English women do not 
wear the yashmak. I can quite understand 
your missing it ; but you will get used to 
going without it presently," 

(s I only desire it because I wish to cover 
my face— because it has not found favour in 
your sight, Effendi," 

freane groaned inwardly, and passed his 
hand across his brow to wipe away the 
perspiration which had started to it 

(i I— er— think you'd better go down to 
the state room, Zela, and get some rest j 

jet to bed early, in fact," he 

She made the Turkish sign of 
submission and obedience, and 
turned at once ; but Deane 
could not let her go like that. 

"You mustn't do that any 
more, Zela," he said. " English 
people say 'flood night' and — er — shake 
hands — like this," 

He took her little hand in his and held 
it— perhaps pressed it. She regarded the 
operation with a smile of amusement. 

"It is very curious," she said: "but it is 
rather nice. That is because it is English, 
no doubt." 

" No doubt," stammered Deane, 
He spent the greater portion of that night 
on deck, trying to persuade himself that he 
was not in love with Sir. Gordon Trafforde's 
newly-found daughter, and failing, Before 
many hours had passed say, about lunch- 
time — Mrs. Selwyn had discovered his secret, 
and, with ihe zest of a born match-maker, 
easily contrived to throw the two young 
people together; she invariably happened to 
have something to do in her state room when 
Deane and Zela were on deck, and was 
always pining for fresh air when they were in 




Deane kept the yacht cruising about until 
the day Sir Gordon had said he would be in 
Athens, and as that day approached he began 
to grow extremely unhappy ; and his unhappi- 
ness was so manifest to Zela that she, perhaps 
from sympathy with so kind a friend and 
protector, likewise grew miserable. On the 
night before the day of their arrival at 
Piraeus, the port for Athens, Deane tried to 
cheer up and impart an air of rejoicing to the 

" You will see your father to-morrow, Zela," 
he said, as they sat side by side on the deck, 
watching a newly-born moon timidly intro- 
ducing itself to the stars. 

" Yes," she assented, without any sign of 
enthusiasm, and somewhat sadly. 

" You will be very glad ? " 

"Oh, yes," she said, with patent resigna- 
tion. " Will he take me away at once ? " 

" I don't know," replied Deane, slowly, and 
feeling as if someone had laid a cold hand on 
his heart. " I should imagine he would take 
you to England. He is a very wealthy man, 
very important and powerful — a Bey. You 
are a rich man's daughter. You will have 
horses and carriages, live in a fine house, 
wear beautiful dresses and jewels like Mrs. 
Selwyn, and the rest of it. I expect you will 
enjoy it all very much." 

" It will be seen. Allah is great and knows 
all, and Mohammed is His prophet," she 
said, rather listlessly. " And will you go to 
England, Leonard ? " 

Deane had told her to call him by his 
Christian name, and until her lips had first 
formed it he had no idea that any man's 
name could be so musical. 

41 1 don't know ; I think not. I may take 
the yacht somewhere." 

" I think it is getting cold," she remarked, 
drawing her shawl across her face. " I will 
go and keep Mrs. Selwyn company." 

"She doesn't want you — I mean she is 
playing the piano and practising some songs. 
Why should you leave me alone? You will 
leave me altogether presently, you know." 

" But I think I am cold," she said, turning 
her face away, and she went below. 

The following day Deane took Zela to the 
hotel in Athens, left her in an ante-room, and 
went up to Sir Gordon's private rooms. 
Deane's face is an expressive one, and Sir 
Gordon, as he rose from his chair to welcome 
him, stopped short and gazed at him fixedly. 

" You have something to tell me, Mr. 
Deane ? " he said, with suppressed agitation. 
" Forgive me — one moment." He pressed 

his hand to his heart, then signed to Deane 
to speak. 

Deane told his story, and a few minutes 
later took Zela to her father's arms, and 
returned alone to the yacht, feeling as if he 
had parted with everything that made life 
worth living. 

He had proposed sailing at once, but Sir 
Gordon had implored him to remain in the 
harbour — at any rate until the next day ; and 
the following morning Sir Gordon came on 
board. Of course, he looked a changed 
man, but he did not appear to be thoroughly 
happy, and as he grasped Deane's hand he 
regarded him with a wistful expression. 

" Once more, Deane, I will not attempt to 
express my gratitude to you," he said, rather 
huskily. " You have saved my life, you have 
restored to me the child for whom I have 
been searching all these years. No man 
living could properly acknowledge, much less 
pay, such a debt ; and I have not come with 
any hope of doing so. But — Deane, my 
heart is full, and I must lay it open to you ; 
between us two there can be no reservation, 
no lack of sympathy. You cannot wonder 
that I should regard you as a son, and as a 
father I speak to you now. You have given 
me back my child, but — but only a part of 

her ! She is with me, but her heart 

Deane, filial instinct has already made her 
fond of me, but I have left her in tears. In 
tears ! She is young, innocent, unsophisti- 
cated ; she is but a child still ; she grieves — 
she weeps. She speaks as if she considers 
that she is bound to you in some way ; she 
says something of having been sold to you. 
The poor child is in great distress." 

Deane was white about the lips, as was 
usual with him when he was deeply moved 
or excited. 

" I am in the same plight as Zela — Miss 
TrafTorde," he said ; " but I haven't the 
relief of tears. I love your daughter, Sir 
Gordon, with all my heart and soul. I 
couldn't tell her so until I had asked your 
consent. I would have asked you for it last 
night ; but it would have been a cruel thing 
to ask you to give her to me the moment you 
had got her back ; besides, I never thought 
she — she cared for me in that way. Will 
you let me claim the title you have given 
me ? Will you let me go back with you ? " 

Sir Gordon laid his hand on Deane's 
shoulder and pressed it ; his lips were smiling, 
but his eyes were dim. 

" Go back alone, my dear fellow ! I will 
wait on board here for— you both." 



OW many astonishing stories 
have been told of the courage 
and the sagacity of dogs ! 
For every story concerning a 
cat it is safe to say there are 
ten relating to a dog, which is 
rather extraordinary when you come to think 
of it, considering that there are people who 
opine that cats are far cleverer than their 
sworn enemies, the canine creation. Not 
only that, there are, it is said, four times as 
many cats as dogs. There are six hundred 
thousand cats in London alone. Does not 
that argue a greater popularity for the cat ? 

At all events, the question of the best cat 
story extant must interest a very wide circle 
of readers. Every cat-lover doubtless has his 
own favourite story, but the anecdotes of 
those who are notably, and in some cases 
almost exclusively, occupied with cats ought 

to possess a double 

"A family I once 
knew in Callander/ 5 



Cat- Lovers 
and Cat- 

writes Lady LyaLL, '* owned a tom-cat of 
striking character, to whom they gave, and 
not undeservedly, the name of Nap. I cannot 
recall, for they were so numerous, all the 
instances of Nap's extraordinary sagacity, but 
there is one which exhibits hi* generalship in 
a strong light While the cook was off her 
guard the cat appropriated a piece of meat, 
and was just making off when cook saw 
him. Intending to catch and punish him she 
instantly followed on rip-toe. She saw him 
go to a corner of the yard where there was 
a rat-hole, and, instead of eating it himself, 
place the morsel of meat by the side of the 
hole. Nap then deliberately marched away a 
few steps and, hiding himself, awaited develop- 
ments. These were not long coming, in the 
shape of a large rat Nap was instantly on the 
qui vive. The rat began to labour with the 
piece of meat, but not until the proper moment 
had arrived did Nap make a mighty spring and 
fix his talons unerringly in the rat's hide. He 
then moved the bait some distance away and 
left it, going off with the carcass of his prey/' 

Vol xirxu,— 37* 


ED 1>L 

Original from 



"The cat story I like best," according 
to Mn* Louis Wain, who is not only an 
inimitable delineator of cats but one of their 
closest students, "is that in which figure a 
well-known monastery, a cat, and a dinner- 
bell At a certain hour each day the bell was 
rung, and the monks and Grimalkin marched 
into the refectory and dined in company. 
One day, however, the cat was locked in a 
room at the other end of the building when 
dinner was announced. Later in the after- 
noon^ when she was released, she darted 
straightway to the refectory, Lo and behold ! 
it was filled with bare tables only, In a few 
moments a loud summons from the dinner- 
bell startled the monks at their devotions. A 
number of them came hurrying to the spot, 
to find the cat swinging, suspended on the 
bell- rope. It was the soundest feline logic; 
there was never any dinner without bell- 
ringing, therefore one had only to ring the 
bell to produce dinner." 

It is alleged against cats that they are not 
" sportsmen " ; but Mrs. Burstall, the well- 
known exhibitor, of Bury St Edmunds, 
sends The Strand an anecdote <o disprove 
this* Her big Persian, Little Black Sambo, 
was very fond of sparrow-flesh, but far fonder 
of catching the birds, After a time the 
amusement seemed to pall, probably owing 
to a plenti fulness of sparrows. Having 
become an adept at the sport, he was filled 
with a new ambition. The sight of two 
sparrows fighting invariably attracted hini. 
He had a long time to wait, but one day 
his chance came under his mistress's eye. 
Leaping from a window noiselessly at the 
proper moment, he sprang into the air 
and caught both birds, one in each 
paw. After dispatching both he 
stalked into the house with the 
air of a champion revolver-shot 


who is able to bring down his prey with 
both hands, and expected to be made a 
great deal of And he was* 

" We noticed once," continues Mrs. 
Burstall, "that our daily newspaper had 
acquired a habit of disappearing soon after 
it was left at the house ; and, though care- 
fully searched for in all the likely places, it 
could never be found. At last, one day I 
observed the cat opening a cupboard- door 
with one paw, and I helped her, as it was 
rather stiff, and there inside I discovered all 
the missing newspapers, torn up into shreds 
to make a cosy bed for her kittens. The 
cat wai not satisfied with the *bed provided 
for her, which was a basket in a cupboard in 
the pantry, but each day for about a week 
she carried whole newspapers to a cupboard 
in the dining-room, there proceeding to make 
a bed more to her liking." 

Mrs. P. Millar, a frequent Crystal Palace 
exhibitor, sends us the following contribution: 
*' One member of my cattery, which was nick- 
named the ' Devil/ had an extraordinary 
musical taste, and was known as my musical 
cat. I do not mean that she would sit <>n 
the tiles during the small hours of the night 
and sing * Meet Me By Moonlight Alone/ 
but that music, instrumental or vocal, had a 
strange fascination for her, wherever she might 
be, if anyone sang or played upon a musical 
instrument. As a kitten she delighted to 
sit on the piano-keys by herself and gently 
pat them up and down. As she grew 
older she would invariably sit down beside 
my daughter during her practising as if fasci- 
nated* When the music ceased she would 
emit a prolonged wailing cry, and if no notice 
was taken she would climb upon the player's 
shoulder, giving vent to her strange cry and 
loudly purring. Finally she would jump upon 
the keys of the piano and play a walk up and 
down. ' Braga's Serenata J was my musical 
cat's favourite tune, and had the same effect 
as the call of the cat's meat man ; it would 
at once bring her upon the scene. Singing 
had the same effect upon her; and when 
1 began to sing she would bound into 
my lap and express her appreciation by 
rolling and rubbing and purring until the 
purr became a scream. To show she wanted 
more music she had the habit of biting at 
my chin, as being the nearest she could get 
to the source of the sounds. Her taste for 
music was, of course, a source of amusement 
to friends and callers. In many ways I 
considered her the most brainy cat I have 
had, as sheQnigiQ^rfwHjfa displayed distinct 



u 9 i 

individuality of a superior kind, When her 
kittens were babies she had her own 
sanctuary for them in the kitchen, and 
woe betide any cat who would venture 
inside. During the kitten period she was 
very savage ; but when that stage had passed 
nothing delighted her more than to gather 
together all the kittens she could lay her 
paws on and clean and nurse them on the 

used to scamper and play, hut the moment 
he saw my grandmother coming with a saucer 
of milk, up would come his paw from the 
ground and he would hobble about on three 
legs as if in great pain. He knew how 
sympathetic she was, but he never tried the 
ruse on other members of the family." 

Mrs. F. W. Western, of Sandy, tells an 
interesting story of how a cat's fidelity 
averted a possible disaster. She says : — 
" £ A cat is a cat whose chief interest 
is his own comfort — two for himself and 
one for his fond mis- 
tress.' Is it not the 
opinion of a great 
many people who do 
not interest themselves 
in the study of poor 
puss ? I hope the 
following story will do 
much to show how 
very wrong these 
people are, and 
in some way 
help to create 


lawn whilst their 
various mothers would 
be airing. One of her tricks 
used to cause much amuse- 
ment, not only to members 
of my family but to herself 
apparently. This was the deft appro- 
priating to herself, as she sat by my 
husband's left hand at meals, of the 
contents of his fork which he was con- 
veying to his mouth. She would snatch 
the meat by her claws and put it in her 
mouth. 17 f 


" My grandmother/' writes Miss 
Loudoun, herself the owner of several 
prize cats, i( owned a fine cat whose leg 
got damaged by the wheel of a perambulator. 
Of course, a great fuss was made over the 
injured limb, and nothing was too good for 
Richard. Milk, with a strong infusion of rich 
cream, was a favourite form of sympathy. 
Everyone noticed that the leg was a long 
time healing, but at last the surgeon declared 
it perfectly healed. Off his guard, Richard 


a kindlier feeling towards the sooften-despised 
little animal who f when occasion arises, uses 
to the utmost of its ability the intellect God 
has given it to aid those to whom it ii devoted. 
11 It has always been my custom to give my 
little girl Winnie a final 'Good night' kiss 
before retiring, /pf|v4faf night, and on this 

^W^Riwtin^iOT s,eeping in a 



separate bed in the maid's room. Beppo, 
the great pet of the family, and especially 
devoted to Winnie, was a lovely imported 
Siamese cat, who always slept at the foot of 
Winnie's bed. As usual, I lit the candle 
placed on the chest of drawers just inside 
the toom, and finding the maid, Winnie, 
and Beppo sound asleep, went out of 
the room, leaving the door half open for 
Beppo's convenience. About two o'clock 
my husband and I were startled with cries of 
1 Fire ! ' from the maid, and, rushing into her 
room, discovered to my dismay that I had 
forgotten to blow the candle out. The 
melted wax had ignited, catching the draperies 
around it, and huge flames were reaching to 
the ceiling. But for the timely aid of Beppo, 
the result would have indeed been serious. 
Beppo, smelling danger, had jumped from 
Winnie's bed on to the maid's chest, and, 
with yells as only Siamese can produce, 
pawed her face vigorously, and her alarming 
cries woke the girL As we entered the room, 
and while extinguishing the flames, we still 
heard Beppo yelling from under the bed, but 
the noise stopped as danger fled. Little 
wonder is it that the main subject for several 
days was Beppo's fidelity, especially by the 
maid, who could think of nothing else. No 
money would have tempted us to part with our 
dear Beppo — nothing but death could part us." 

Mrs. Western also tells the following story 
of a friendship between a cat and a dog : — 

" It is eleven years since I possessed a 
little half-bred Manx, whose pet name was 
Tipsy Ann, and much of my present enthu- 
siasm originated from the win of a third prize 
by Tipsy Ann at some very small show. 
Tipsy Ann had not been in my possession 
long before I discovered her to be a very 
intelligent cat She was intensely fond of 
Toby, the fox-terrier dog, who, in spite of his 
devotion to Tipsy Ann, was a terror to all 
other cats. The two were constant friends, 
and shared the same cosy bed in a large 
hamper in an adjoining barn. It happened, 
however, much to the grief and dismay of 
poor Toby, on one occasion, that a separate 
bed had to be found for him elsewhere and 
the barn door kept closed for a day or two. 
I could not help noticing during these two 
days that the two held constant whispered 
conversations under the barn door, as I re- 
peatedly found Master Toby intent on listen- 
ing and Tipsy Ann intent on purring all her 
news to him. It was only on these occasions 
that she would leave her babies, for she 
absolutely refused to come out of her hamper 
to be fed, and yet she pleadingly gazed into 

my face, mewing loudly all the time. I could 
see she wanted to have a chat with Toby, 
and at once opened the barn door. Toby, 
wagging his tail joyfully and licking the 
babies, allowed Tipsy Ann to rub her head 
against his ; and, understanding her signifi- 
cant purr, stood back whilst she jumped out 
of the hamper and watched him take her 
place by the side of the kittens. In this 
way Toby kept the babies warm until their 
devoted mother had enjoyed her hitherto 
refused meal. This incident occurred for 
several days, Toby taking great care that 
they were in no way molested until they could 
well take care of themselves." 

Miss Beardsley (" Auntie Nell ") sends 
us a true incident in the life of a short-haired 
north-country brown tabby cat : " Flick 
never would kill a mouse; and, strange 
to say, at two different houses we had a 
mouse in the garden who used to come out 
and play with him, and, when tired, would 
go into their holes. They seemed to play 
hide-and-seek amongst the ferns, and were 
quite at home with the cat. 

" The same cat came to me one day after 
he had been fed and worried me to go with 
him to the larder for more fish, and refused 
to eat it, but took me into the garden and 
there disappeared. I went into the kitchen 
to watch, and shortly he reappeared with a 
mangy, thin, half-starved, dreadful-looking 
cat, to whom he showed the fish, I suppose, 
for it came and eagerly ate it up, while Flick 
sat a little distance off, watching it. We 
then always put food out, till that stray 
became a fine cat But I suppose it told 
others, for in a few days we had three or 
four more." 

Miss Chamberlayne, of Southall, writes : 
" A lady I know once owned a pet cat that 
every morning came up into her bedroom ; 
and when she got into her bath the cat 
proceeded to jump in and splashed about, 
with evident delight and amusement This 
is quite true. 

" I have myself owned a large brown 
tabby Persian, whose chief delight was to 
get soaked through in the rain or very wet 
grass ; and, when a young cat, if missing, he 
was generally found playing with some puddle, 
patting the water and scooping it up with his 

"Cats are extremely faithful when they 
really know you ; they never, never forget ; 
and the love and unselfishness are more 
approaching the human than in any other 
animal." / 




The feline world has its organ 
as well as other communities, 
and the Editor of Our Cats 
contributes the following : — 

"A beautiful chinchilla queen, 
Ashbriule Pearl (daughter of the 
late His Majesty of Whitehall), 
recently had a family snugly 
kennelled in the room known 
as the 'cat kitchen/ where the 
food for the animals is prepared. 
The other day, when these kittens 
were nearly three weeks old, loud 
cries of distress were heard pro- 
ceeding from Peari and her 
progeny, and on hastening to the 
door the room was found to be 
full of dense smoke, and with 
a most disagreeable and 
alarming smell of burning ; 
so thick, indeed, was the 
smoke that it was difficult 
to cross the room to open 
the window. Pearl flew 

forward with a cry of joy 
and brought out a kitten 

soaking wet, and when the 

smoke cleared slightly the 

other kittens — for whom 

Pearl returned — were all 

found to have been placed 

by their mother in the milk 

howl, as she evidently con- 
sidered they were less likely 

to be burnt or smothered 

there- The cause of the 

fracas was the attendant 

having been called away 

and detained, during which 

time the food on the fire 

had burnt dry, the bottom 

of the pan being burnt out 

and the food reduced to cinders. Of course, 

the little things were carefully dried and 

warmed at the fire, and happily suffered no 

iU effects from their milk bath," 

A successful breeder, Mr. R. G^ Mivart, 
of Edinburgh, writes : " The best eat story I 
know is that of a cat belonging to a well- 
known theological seminary. This sagacious 
animal discovered that when a certain bell 
Tang the cook left the kitchen to answer it, 
leaving a number of dishes ready to be 
served unprotected- The cat, apparently 
after much reflection, adopted the plan of 
ringing the bell herself, not a difficult feat, 
considering the handle hung outside the 
kitchen window, but requiring great agility, 


after doing so, to leap through the window 
and get back unobserved, The plan was 
so successful that it was conducted for some 
time undetected, although in the meantime 
two or three servants had been suspected of 
purloining the food, and one of them punished. 
Say what you will, this was certainly a cat 
with brains, if not one with morals." 

4i A good deal has been said and written," 
writes Lady Harris, "concerning the cruelty 
of cats, especially towards mice and similar 
vermin. But I have owned many cats which 
were not In the least cruel to such animals as 
they caught, and never ( rejoiced in their suffer- 
ings,' to use the language of a professed dog- 

,over - \>m$m Mtetr 5heU ma ' e 




cat, a rare kind, through a long illness, during 
which time it would hardly ever accept food 
save from my own hand. Some months after 
it had completely recovered I myself fell ill. 
For a full fortnight I was not allowed even to 
see Charley or to have him in my room. But 
one morning, after stroking him languidly for 
a few minutes, much to his delight, he dis- 
appeared, and was gone for some hours. 
When he returned he bore a fat mouse in 
his jaws, which he gravely deposited on my 
bed. The next day he did the same, and no 
doubt exists in my mind that Charley fondly 
imagined he was bringing me dainties suit- 
able to an invalid's consumption. I wouldn't 
have discouraged him for the world, but I 
learnt afterwards the nurse did, so that I 
have no notion how many marks of Charley's 
gratitude and sympathy were brought to my 

A lifelong cat-fancier, Mr, E* R. Mon- 
tacu, sends us the following as the most 
striking cat story he has ever heard: — 

"There was a murder of a woman at 
Lyons. When the police came and inspected 
the body, which lay in a pool of blood, one 
of them drew attention to a large white cat 
on the top of a cupboard The eyes of the 
cat were fastened on its murdered mistress 
with an expression of terror, No attempt 
was made to disturb it, and the cat was still 
there motionless the next morning. During 
the day the detectives brought in two suspected 

persons. They had scarcely 
entered the room when the cat 
sprang up, with bristling fur and 
glaring eyes, and, descending 
to the floor, began acting in 
the most astonishing manner* 
Both the suspected persons 
turned pale, and one of them 
in a kind of panic tried to strike 
at it The cat then disappeared. 
A short time afterwards one 
the murderers made a con- 
fession, in which the cat 
figured as the only wit- 
ness of the crime which 
he and his companion 
had perpetrated. Both 
men were executed. 
This story was, I 
be 1 i eve, a u t h en ticated 
by the late Mr. Frederic 

There are numerous 
stories of dogs rearing 
kittens and cats rearing 
puppies, a number of which have been sent us. 
But Mr. A. Packett, one of the best-known 
fanciers in the South of England, tells us of a 
cat which took a great fancy to another species 
of small quadruped. A friend of his near 
Eastbourne ploughed up a nest of young hares* 
unhappily killing the mother in so doing. 
Someone thought of putting the infant leverets 
under the care of a greengrocer's cat Pussy 
took to them at once, and, as an advertise- 
ment, the greengrocer placed the happy 
family in his window. This was resented 
by the foster-mother, who promptly hid her 
foster -young as cats do their kittens, and 
nothing would induce her to allow them to 
be shown off. After a time the hares were 
turned down on a farm and the nurse was 
inconsolable. She had developed a greater 
love for hares than she probably would 
have done for her own kittens, while her 
disgust (or is it grief?) at the sight and 
smell of a dead hare is surprising to all who 
witness it" 

tub you 



HERE were three distinct 
stages in the evolution of 
Annette Brougham's attitude 
towards the knocking in the 
room above. In the beginning 
it had been merely a vague 
discomfort Absorbed in the composition of 
her waltz, she had heard it almost sub- 
consciously. The second stage set in when 
it became a physical pain like red-hot pincers 
wrenching her mind from her music. Finally, 
with a thrill of indignation, she knew it for 
what it was — an insult. The unseen brute 
disliked her playing, and was intimating his 
views with a boot-heel. 

Defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal, 
she struck — almost slapped— the keys once 

" Bang ! " from the room above. " Bang ! 

Annette rose. Her face was pink, her 
chin tilted. Her eyes sparkled with the light 
of battle. She left the room and started to 
mount the stairs. No spectator^ however 
just, could have helped feeling a pang of pity 
for the wretched man who stood unconscious 
of imminent doom, possibly even triumphant, 
behind the door at which she was on the 
point of tapping. 

" Come in ! " cried the voice, rather a 
pleasant voice ; but what is a pleasant voice 
if the soul be vile ? 

Annette went in. The room was a typical 
Chelsea studio, scantily furnished and lacking 
a carpet In the centre was an easel, behind 
which were visible a pair of trousered legs. 
A cloud of grey smoke was curling up over 
the top of the easel. 

" I beg your pardon," began Annette. 

" I don't want any models at present," said 
the Brute. " Leave your card on the table." 

" I am not a model," said Annette, coldly. 
" I merely came " 

P-O -Wodehouae 

At this the Brute emerged from his forti- 
fications and, removing his pipe from his 
mouth, jerked his chair out into the open. 

" I beg your pardon," he said. " Won't 
you sit down ? " 

How reckless is Nature in the distribution 
of her gifts! Not only had this black-hearted 
knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, in 
addition, a pleasing exterior. He was slightly 
dishevelled at the moment, and his hair stood 
up in a disordered mop ; but, in spite of 
these drawbacks, he was quite passably good- 
looking. Annette admitted this. Though 
wrathful, she was fair. 

" I thought it was another model," he 
explained. " They've been Coming in at the 
rate of ten an hour ever since I settled here. 
I didn't object at first, but after about the 
eightieth child of sunny Italy had shown up 
it began to get on my nerves." 

Annette waited coldly till he had finished 

" I am sorry," she said, in a this-is-where- 
you-get- yours voice, " if my playing disturbed 

One would have thought nobody but an 
Eskimo wearing his furs and winter under- 
clothing could have withstood the iciness of 
her manner ; but the Brute did not freeze. 

" I am sorry," repeated Annette, well below 
zero, " if my playing disturbed you. I live in 
the room below, and I heard you knocking." 

li No, no," protested the young man, 
affably ; " I like it. Really I do." 

" Then why knock on the floor ? " said 
Annette, turning to go. " It is so bad for 
my ceiling," she said over her shoulder. " I 
thought you would not mind my mentioning 
it. Good afternoon." 

" No ; but one moment Don't go." 

frffi^fff^F Sff flUBi W urvcy inB her with 



a friendly smile. She noticed most reluc- 
tantly that he had a nice smile. His com- 
posure began to enrage her more and more. 
Long ere this he should have been writhing 
at her feet in the dust, crushed and abject. 

" You see," he said, " I'm awfully sorry, 
but it's like this. I love music, but— what 
I mean is, you weren't playing a tune. It 
was just the same bit over and over again." 

11 1 was trying to get a phrase," said 
Annette, with dignity, but less coldly. In 
spite of herself she was beginning to thaw. 
There was something singularly attractive 
about this shock-headed youth. 

« A phrase ? " 

c <Of music. For my waltz. I am com- 
posing a waltz." 

A look of such unqualified admiration 
overspread the young man's face that the last 
remnants of the ice-pack melted. For the 
first time since they had met Annette found 
herself positively liking this blackguardly 

" Can you compose music ? " he said, 

" I have written one or two songs." 

" It must be great to be able to do things — 
artistic things, I mean, like composing." 

" Well, you do, don't you ? You paint." 

The young man shook his head with a 
cheerful grin. 

"I fancy," he said, "I should make a 
pretty good house-painter. I want scope. 
Canvas seems to cramp me." 

It seemed to cause him no discomfort 
He appeared rather amused than otherwise. 

" Let me look." 

She crossed over to the easel. 

"I shouldn't," he warned her. "You 
really want to ? Is this not mere recklessness? 
Very well, then." 

To the eye of an experienced critic the 
picture would certainly have seemed crude. 
It was a study of a dark-eyed child holding a 
large black cat. Statisticians estimate that 
there is no moment during the day when one 
or more young artists somewhere on the face 
of the globe are not painting pictures of 
children holding cats. 

" I call it ' Child and Cat,"' said the young 
man. " Rather a neat title, don't you think ? 
Gives you the main idea of the thing right 
away. That," he explained, pointing oblig- 
ingly with the stem of his pipe, " is the cat." 

Annette belonged to that large section of 
the public which likes or dislikes a picture 
according to whether its subject happens to 
please or displease them. Probably there 
was not one of the million or so child-and- 

cat eyesores at present in existence which 
she would not have liked. Besides, he had 
been very nice about her music. 

" I think it's splendid," she announced. 

The young man's face displayed almost 
more surprise than joy. 

" Do you really ? " he said. " Then I can 
die happy — that is, if you'll let me come 
down and listen to those songs of yours 

" You would only knock on the floor," 
objected Annette. 

" I'll never knock on another floor as long 
as I live," said the ex-Brute, reassuringly. "I 
hate knocking on floors. I don't see what 
people want to knock on floors for, anyway." 

Friendships ripen quickly in Chelsea. 
Within the space of an hour and a quarter 
Annette had learned that the young man's 
name was Alan Beverley (for which Family 
Heraldic affliction she pitied rather than 
despised him), that he did not depend entirely 
on his work for a living, having a little money 
of his own, and that he considered this a 
fortunate thing. From the very beginning of 
their talk he pleased her. She found him 
an absolutely new and original variety of 
the unsuccessful painter. Unlike Reginald 
Sellers, who had a studio in the same build- 
ing, and sometimes dropped in to drink her 
coffee and pour out his troubles, he did not 
attribute his non-success to any malice or 
stupidity on the part of the public. She was 
so used to hearing Sellers lash the Philistine 
and hold forth on unappreciated merit that 
she could hardly believe the miracle when, 
in answer to a sympathetic bromide on the 
popular lack of taste in Art, Beverley replied 
that, as far as he was concerned, the public 
showed strong good sense. If he had been 
striving with every nerve to win her esteem, he 
could not have done it more surely than with 
that one remark. Though she invariably 
listened with a sweet patience which en- 
couraged them to continue long after the point 
at which she had begun in spirit to throw things 
at them, Annette had no sympathy with men 
who whined. She herself was a fighter. 
She hated as much as anyone the sickening 
blows which Fate hands out to the struggling 
and ambitious; but she never made them the 
basis of a monologue act. Often, after a 
dreary trip round the offices of the music- 
publishers, she would howl bitterly in secret, 
and even gnaw her pillow in the watches of 
the night ; but in public her pride kept her 
unvaryingly bright and cheerful. 

To-day, for the first time, she revealed 

University of Michigan 





something of her woes. There was that 
about the mop-headed young man which 
invited confidences. She told him of the 
stony* hearted ness of music-publishers* of the 
difficulty of getting songs printed unless you 
paid for them, of their wntcked sales. 

"But those songs you've been playing/' 
said Beverley, " they've been published ? " 

" Yes, those three- But they are the only 

M And didn't they sell ? " 

" Hardly at all. You see, a song doesn't 
sell unless somebody well known sings it + 
And people promise to sing them, and then 
don't keep their word. You can't depend on 
what they saj\" 

"Give me their names," said Beverley, 
41 and P" to round to-morrow and shoot the 

V y L ***i* -38. 

whole lot. But can't 
you do anything?'* 
u Only keep on 
keeping on/' 

11 1 wish," he said, 
"that any time 
you're feeling blue 
about things you 
would come up and 
pour out the poison 
on me. It's no- 
good bottling it up. 
Come up and tell 
me about it, and 
you'll feel ever so 
much better* Or 
let me come down. 
Any time things 
aren't going right 
just knock on the 

She laughed. 
" Don't rub it 
in," pleaded Bever- 
ley- "It isn't fair. 
There's nobody so 
sensitive as a re- 
formed floor- 
knocker. You will 
come up or let me 
come down, won't 
you? Whenever I 
have that sad, 
depressed feeling, I 
go out and kill a 
policeman. But you 
wouldn't care for 
that. So the only 
thing for you to do 
is to knock on the 
ceiling. Then I'll 
come charging down and see if there's any- 
thing I can do to help/' 

" You'll be sorry you ever said this." 
" I won't," he said, stoutly. 
"If you really mean it, it would be a 
relief," she admitted "Sometimes I'd give 
all the money I'm ever likely to make for 
someone to shriek my grievances at I 
always think it must have been so nice for 
the people \n the old novels, when they used 
to say: 'Sit down and I will tell you the 
story of my life.' Mustn't it have been 
heavenly ? " 

"Well," said Beverley, rising, [t you know 
where I am if I'm wanted. Right up there 
where the knocking came from," 

" Knocking ? " said Annette. " I remember 

^jfefeff OF MICHIGAN 

2 98 


" VVould you mind shaking hands?" said 

A particularly maddening hour with one 
of her pupils drove her up the very next 
day. Her pupils were at once her salvation 
and her despair. They gave her the means 
of supporting life, but they made life hardly 
worth supporting- Some of them were learn- 
ing the piano. Others thought they sang. 
All had solid ivory skulls- There was about 
a teaspoonful of grey matter distributed 

Brougham ? If you have, you're just in 
time to join in the massacre of the innocents. 
Sellers has been smiting my child and cat 
hip and thigh. Look at his eye. There ! 
Did you see it flash then ? He's on the war- 
path again," 

11 My dear Beverley," said Sellers, rather 
stiffly, " I am merely endeavouring to give 
you my idea of the picture's defects. I am 
sorry if my criticism has to be a little harsh," 

"Go right on," said Beverley, cordially. 
" Don't mind me ; it's all for my good." 



among the entire squad, and the pupil 
Annette had boon teaching that afternoon 
had come in at the tail-end of the division. 

In the studio with Beverley she found 
Reginald Sellers, standing in a critical attitude 
before the easel She was not very fond of 
him* He was a long, offensive, patronizing 
person, with a moustache that looked like a 
smear of charcoal, and a habit of addressing 
her as M Ah, little one ! " 

He veiley looked up. 

** Have you brought your 


"Well, in a word, then, it is lifeless, 
Neither the child nor the cat lives," 

He stepped back a pace and made a frame 
of his hands. 

"The cat now," he said. "It is — how- 
shall I put it ? It has no— no — er " 

11 That kind of cat wouldn't/ 5 said Beverley. 
11 It isn't that breed." 

M I think it'* a dear cat," said Annette. 
She felt her temper, always quick, getting the 
better of her.GS&tfiiWwnjust how incom- 
petent S<mEfWM^^HI^H»r beyond 



endurance to see Beverley's good-humoured 
acceptance of his patronage. 

" At any rate," said Beverley, with a grin, 
" you both seem to recognize that it is a cat. 
You're solid on that point, and that's some- 
thing, seeing I'm only a beginner." 

11 1 know, my dear fellow ; 1 know," said 
Sellers, graciously. " You mustn't let my 
criticism discourage you. Don't think that 
your work lacks promise. Far from it. I 
am sure that in time you will do very well 
indeed. Quite well." 

A cold glitter might have been observed in 
Annette's eyes. 

" Mr. Sellers," she said, smoothly, " had to 
work very hard himself before he reached his 
present position. You know his work, of 
course ? " 

For the first time Beverley seemed some- 
what confused. 

44 1 — er — why " he began. 

" Oh, but of course you do," she went on, 
sweetly. " It's in all the magazines." 

Beverley looked at the great man with 
admiration, and saw that he had flushed 
uncomfortably. He put this down to the 
modesty of genius. 

4 In the advertisement pages," said 
Annette. " Mr. Sellers drew that picture of 
the Waukeesy Shoe and the Restawhile 
Settee and the tin of sardines in the Little 
Gem Sardine advertisement. He is very good 
at still life." 

There was a tense silence. Beverley could 
almost hear the voice of the referee uttering 
the count. 

44 Miss Brougham," said Sellers at last, 
spitting out the words, 44 has confined herself 
10 the purely commercial side of my work. 
There is another." 

44 Why, of course there is. You sold a 
landscape for five pounds only eight months 
ago, didn't you ? And another three months 
before that." 

It was the knock-out. Sellers bowed stiffly 
and stalked from the room. 

Beverley picked up a duster and began 
slowly to sweep the floor with it. 

44 What are you doing ? " demanded 
Annette, in a choking voice. 

44 The fragments of the wretched man," 
whispered Beverley. 44 They must be swept 
up and decently interred. You certainly 
have got the punch, Miss Brougham." 

He dropped the duster with a startled 
exclamation, for Annette had suddenly burst 
into a flood of tears. With her face buried 
in her hands she sat in her chair and sobbed 

*Good Lord !" said Beverley, blankly. 

" I'm a cat ! I'm a beast ! I hate myself !" 

u Good Ix>rd ! " said Beverley, blankly. 

44 I'm a pig ! I'm a fiend ! " 

44 Good Lord!" said Beverley, blankly. 

44 We're all struggling and trying to get on 
and having hard luck, and instead of doing 
what I can to help, I go and t-t-taunt him 
with not being able to sell his pictures ! I'm 
not fit to live! Oh! n 

44 Good Lord ! " said Beverley, blankly. 

A series of gulping sobs followed, diminish 
ing by degrees into silence. Presently she 
looked up and smiled, a moist and pathetic 

44 I'm sorry," she said, " for being so stupid. 
But he was so horrid and patronizing to you, 
I couldn't help scratching. I believe I'm 
the worst cat in London." 

44 No, this is," said Beverley, pointing to 
the canvas. <4 At least, according to the late 
Sellers. But, I say, tell me, isn't the deceased 
a great artist, then ? He came curveting in 
here with his chest out and started to slate 
my masterpiece, so I naturally said, * What- 
ho ! 'Tis a genius ! ' Isn't he ? " 

44 He can't sell his pictures anywhere. He 
lives on the little he can get from illustrating 
advertisements. And I t-taunt " 

44 Please 1 " cried Beverley, apprehensively. 

She recovered herself with a gulp. 

" I can't help it," she said, miserably. " I 
rubbed it in. Oh, it was hateful of me ! 
But I was all on edge from teaching one of 
my awful pupils, and when he started to 
patronize you " 

She blinked. 

44 Poor devil ! " said Beverley. " I never 
guessed. Good Lord ! " 

Annette rose. 

44 1 must go and tell him I'm sorry," she 
said. 44 He'll snub me horribly, but I must." 

She went out. Beverley lit a pipe and 
stood at the window looking thoughtfully 
down into the street. 

It is a good rule in life never to apologize. 
The right sort of people do not want apolo- 
gies, and the wrong sort take a mean advan- 
tage of them. Sellers belonged to the latter 
class. When Annette, meek, penitent, with 
all her claws sheathed, came to him and 
grovelled he forgave her with a repulsive 
magnanimity which in a less subdued mood 
would have stung her to renewed pugnacity. 
As it was, she allowed herself to be forgiven, 
and retired with a dismal conviction that 
from now on he would be more insufferable 




Her surmise proved absolutely correct. •His 
visits to the new-comer's studio began again, 
and Beverley's picture, now nearing comple- 
tion, came in for criticism enough to have 
filled a volume. The good-humcur with 
which he received it amazed Annette. She 
had no proprietary interest in the painting 
beyond what she acquired from a growing 
regard for its parent (which disturbed her a 
good deal when she had time to think of it) ; 
but there were moments when only the 
recollection of her remorse for her previous 
outbreak kept her from rending the critic. 
Beverley, however, appeared to have no 
artistic sensitiveness whatsoever. When 
Sellers savaged the cat in a manner which 
should have brought the S.P.C.A. down 
upon him, Beverley merely beamed. His 
long - sufferingness was beyond Annette's 

She began to admire him for it. 

To make his position as critic still more 
impregnable, Sellers was now able to speak 
as one having authority. After years of 
floundering, his luck seemed at last to have 
turned. His pictures, which for months had 
lain at an agent's, careened like crippled 
battleships, had at length begun to find a 
market. Within the past two weeks three 
landscapes and an allegorical painting had 
sold for good prices; and under the influ- 
ence of success he expanded like an opening 
floweret. When Epstein, the agent, wrote 
to say that the allegory had been purchased 
by a Glasgow plutocrat of the name of Bates 
for one hundred and sixty guineas, Sellers' 
views on, Philistines and their crass material- 
ism and lack of taste underwent a marked 
modification. He spoke with some friendli- 
ness of the man Bates. 

" To me," said Beverley, when informed of 
the event by Annette, "the matter has a 
deeper significance. It proves that Glasgow 
has at last produced a sober man. No drinker 
would have dared face that allegory. The 
whole business is very gratifying." 

Beverley himself was progressing slowly in 
the field of Art. He had finished the " Child 
and Cat," and had taken it to Epstein 
together with a letter of introduction from 
Sellers. Sellers' habitual attitude now was of 
the kindly celebrity who has arrived and 
wishes to give the youngsters a chance. 

Since its departure Beverley had not done 
much in the way of actual execution. When- 
ever Annette came to his studio he was either 
sitting in a chair with his feet on the window- 
sill, smoking, or in the same attitude listening 
to Sellers' views on art. Sellers being on the 

up-grade, a man with many pounds to his 
credit in the bank, had more leisure now. 
He had given up his advertisement work, 
and was planning a